


I measure every Grief I meet

by candlebreak



Series: My Revolution is Born Out of Love [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, And Irondad, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Pepper Potts, BAMF Peter Parker, Bureaucracy, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Courtroom Drama, Eventual Happy Ending, Foster Care, Gen, Homeless Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Identity Reveal, IronMom, Juvie, Overthrowing entrenched systems of power, POV Alternating, POV Outsider, POV Pepper Potts, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter and Ned and MJ somehow become the parents of a bunch of children?, Police Brutality, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison, Secret Identity, So much trauma, Systemic Oppression, Therapy, Trans Peter Parker, Trauma, Trauma Recovery, Whump, an actual honest-to-goodness good social worker, despite being a childrens themselves, does that make this kidfic???, family court, hunger, just so much bureaucracy porn, oh god this thing is going to be long, peter parker is a goddamn superhero, that’s my fetish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 130,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25057393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candlebreak/pseuds/candlebreak
Summary: She found herself once again staring down the Parker kid in her office. It was a familiar scene. He was curled into the sagging armchair she’d scooped off the curb, feet scuffing against his duffel bag on the floor, arms hunched over the backpack in his lap. Over the past two months and six moves, the boy had quietly trimmed down all of his possessions to fit in those two bags.“What,” said Rhee, “the fuck.”Peter shrugged, defensive.If someone had told her three months ago that this doe-eyed white boy with his cheerful geekery and his pathological adherence to respectful forms of address would be one of her most troublesome cases, she would have laughed them out of the room. Now, she wasn’t laughing.*Yet another homeless Peter Parker fic feat. a very tired social worker trying to care; badass Ned and MJ; your friendly local trans Spider-Man; an actual real Stark Industries internship; extremely in-depth and realistic depictions of the US foster care, legal, and criminal justice systems; the beautiful disaster that is Harley Keener; dismantling systemic oppression with weaponized empathy; the unshakeable Pepper Potts; a small army of lesbians; hardcore hero Peter Parker; and soo much trauma
Relationships: Harley Keener & James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Harley Keener & Pepper Potts, Harley Keener & Peter Parker, Harley Keener & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Michelle Jones & Harley Keener & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Pepper Potts & James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Pepper Potts, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: My Revolution is Born Out of Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016289
Comments: 523
Kudos: 711





	1. 0. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This work is going to be an exploration of grief and loss, as well as systemic injustices and power imbalances. It deals with a lot of heavy and dark things. This includes themes of transphobia, racism, homophobia, classism, and ableism. 
> 
> There was a reason that Peter Parker decided to become Spider-Man, to become a vigilante, to look out for the little guy. The system we currently have obviously isn't doing the job well enough (especially when you consider the various -isms and -phobias mentioned above). This story explores in more depth the many, many flaws of the United States justice and social safety systems, and how Peter Parker and Spider-Man deal with them.This includes everything from foster care to food banks to access to medical treatment to courts to policing to prison and parole. 
> 
> In addition, this story includes rape and sexual assault (as you may have gathered from the Skip Westcott tag). I have done my best not to exult in the violence or trauma of this, and do not include any explicit descriptions of the actual acts. However, there will be very thorough explorations of the emotional impact of rape from the victim's perspective, both in the lead-up and in the aftermath. It is not the central focus of the story, but is a major element. 
> 
> Each chapter will include specific trigger warnings for that chapter, and I will include non-explicit summaries of particularly difficult or graphic chapters at the beginning of the next chapter.
> 
> I am not an expert in any of this, and I am sure I will get stuff wrong. Please feel comfortable calling me out on anything I write, and I will do my best to listen and educate myself going forward!
> 
> There will be a hopeful ending, I promise.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and take care of yourselves <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an AU where Peter was a bit younger during Civil War, and so didn’t have his powers yet when all that was happening. Civil War happens mostly the same, just without Spiderman. When the fic starts, Peter has been Spiderman for about a year. Aunt May, Ned, and MJ all know, but Peter hasn't had any contact with the Avengers or any other superheroes yet.
> 
> TW for major character death is for Aunt May :(
> 
> Fic title taken from the Emily Dickinson Poem, I measure every Grief I meet (full poem in the endnotes)

There was a white boy outside Rhee’s door, and she didn’t like the look of him. He’d been ringing the bell every ten seconds for almost half an hour, and Rhee finally gave in to open the door when Mrs. Whitmore next door started banging on her wall to “shut that damn missionary up or she’d shut him up, I know you’re home Harietta Lee, get rid of him.” 

Rhee sidled up to the peephole and looked through. It was clear even through the fish lens that Mr. Arrogant White Boy was tall, well over six foot, and pretty broad too under his white collared shirt tucked into gray slacks. Those clothes looked expensive, blaringly out of place in this type of neighborhood. The only reason he wasn’t screaming “threat” at her was because he had an extreme case of baby face, surrounded by a mess of cherubic curls, and he bounced back on his heels nervously and chewed his lip after every time he pressed the bell. He looked vaguely familiar, too, but she couldn’t place it from where.

She curled one hand around a can of pepper spray and pressed the other to the alarm mounted on the wall that would call the police. She really didn’t want to get them involved, but she didn’t like the look of this white boy at all. He might not look like a threat, but he definitely looked like trouble.

She yanked the door open as far as she could without unhooking the chain and gave him her best I-will-kill-you glare. She barely came up to his shoulder, but she’d downed greater men with lesser looks. “What.”

He startled backwards as her face appeared in the doorway, but recovered quickly enough. “Excuse me, ma’am,”—he had a Tennessee twang about him, but only a subtle one, and Rhee felt a brief burst of homesickness—“are you Harietta Isaacs?”

“Didn’t your mama ever tell you it was rude to go pounding at someone’s door for half a fucking hour?” she snapped in response. “Piss off, whoever you are, I’m not interested in whatever god or salvation or bullshit it is you're selling.”

“What?” Confusion flickered briefly across his face. “Naw, I’m not a missionary.” He grinned wickedly. “Proud satanist, ma’am, but only ‘cuz it pisses folks off. No, I’m looking for a friend of mine. Heard you might know something about him.”

“You heard wrong.” Rhee went to close the door, but the white boy stuck his foot in it.

“Please,” he said, earnest-like, giving her some obviously well-used puppy-dog eyes. “His name’s Peter Parker and I’m really worried about him.”

Rhee’s breath hitched in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t help you.” She kicked his foot, hard, and slammed the door in his face.

The white boy didn’t give up easy, she’d give him that much. He’d stayed outside her door for another hour, and only left when she’d finally threatened to call the cops on him for harassing her. At least he’d only needed the threat to finally leave her alone, and not the actual call. Rhee didn’t like dragging the pigs into her business. She saw enough of them in her line of work, anyway, most of the times making things worse instead of better.

She sighed, and poured herself a drink. Gin and ginger.

A soft knock sounded at her door. “Harietta.” A soft, female voice. Not the white boy.

Rhee sighed and went to open the door. “Hi, Mrs. Whitmore. Drink?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Rhee helped her navigate to the table, kicking books and clothes out of the way so Mrs. Whitmore’s walker could pass, and poured her a gin and ginger too. She didn’t have any throw pillows, so she used a blanket as a cushion so that Mrs. Whitmore’s back wouldn’t bother her so much. Zora Whitmore was older than sin, with more replacement bones than real ones and less than half her sight left, and she was one of the sharpest people Rhee had ever met.

“This is better with whiskey, you know,” said Mrs. Whitmore once she’d took a sip.

“I know,” said Rhee, not taking any insult. “Can’t afford good whiskey, though, and I’d rather drink bad gin.”

“Mmm.” Mrs. Whitmore nodded and kept sipping. “So, what’d your boy want?”

“He’s not my boy, Mrs. Whitmore. He was just…a boy.” She sighed, all fight gone out of her.

“He was persistent.”

“Yeah,” Rhee agreed, miserable. “He was worried about a friend. That’ll do that to you, you know?”

“Mm-hmm. That friend, then. _He_ one of your boys?”

“Yeah.” Rhee toyed with her empty cup. “You know I can’t tell you anything about him, right?”

“Of course, of course. Was he right to be worried, though?” When Rhee didn’t respond, she pressed, “About his friend?”

 _Peter Parker_ , the white boy’s words swirled around in her head. _I’m really worried about him._ “Yeah,” said Rhee, bitter and feeling like a broken record. “He was right to be worried.”

Mrs. Whitmore nodded, solemn. “Good thing he has friends who care about him, then. Even friends who dress like missionaries. He’ll need those type of folks around him. People who care.”

“Yeah,” said Rhee, yet again. He wouldn’t get them, though. Satanic missionary white boy would never find Peter Parker, or if he did, it wouldn’t help with the whole mountain of shit that Peter had managed to pile upon himself. Course, Rhee had helped him heap that shit on with a shovel, so she didn’t have any right to be angry about it.She had no right to get involved, either, certainly no right to fuck it up any more. She didn’t deserve to care about Peter.

That didn’t stop his face from haunting her dreams, his too-small frame curled up into a ball in a hospital room; that broken grin that hid so much damn pain; those fucking trusting brown eyes, too big for his face; and the way he’d skipped beside her, taking the weight of the world onto his own small shoulders and never letting it show.

She woke up feeling like shit and wished that the white boy had just been part of her bad dreams.

* * *

That was not to be. The boy was lounging outside her office building when she went on lunch break.

“Ms. Isaacs?” he said, straightening off the wall. He was wearing a less ridiculous ensemble today, jeans and a faded T-shirt, though Rhee could tell they were still well made and probably worth at least her monthly grocery budget. “Would you like a coffee?” He held out a Starbucks cup in offering.

She stared at it, then at him.

“It’s just a latte, but I could get something else if you want, or if you want to see it being made, or maybe lunch, or whatever. Listen,” he jogged after her when she turned away. “I’d like to apologize. For last night. I realize that that was…way out of line and completely inappropriate, showing up at your house out of the blue. I’m just really worried about Peter. So I was wondering if I could get you a coffee, or lunch, to make it up to you? We don’t have to talk or anything, but if you did have any information about Peter that you could share, or I could share information with you…” He trailed off, hopeful. “Please, Ms. Isaacs? I’m kinda running out of options.”

“Rhee,” she said, already regretting it as the words left her mouth.

The boy blinked. “What?”

“Call me Rhee. Everybody does.” Except Mrs. Whitmore, who called her Harietta, and Peter, who she’d finally worn down to a simple ‘ _Ms_. Rhee.’ She narrowed her eyes at him in warning. “You can buy me lunch. Somewhere public, and I’m not promising anything.”

The boy perked up. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you so much.”

They ended up getting street-cart gyros and sitting on a bench outside the local elementary school, where the kids were having recess chaperoned by their weary teachers.

“So,” said Rhee. “What’s your name? I thought I knew all of Peter’s friends.” He only had two of them, and they were surprisingly persistent.

“Ke-Keith,” said the boy, choking a bit on his gyro.

“Keith,” echoed Rhee, flatly. “Got a last name to go with that?”

“St- no, um…Tony-Toby! Yeah. Toby.”

“Your name,” said Rhee, deadpan, “is Toby Keith. Like the country singer.”

“Nope,” said the boy, who was obviously not Toby Keith, with a shit-eating grin. “It’s Keith Toby. Totally different. Doesn’t flow as well, I’ll give you that, but it’s the name my momma gave me, so what can you do?”

“Uh-huh,” said Rhee. “Well, ‘Keith’,” she said, making the quotes around his name as obvious as she could, “why are you here?”

“Right.” He nodded and took a breath. “Peter is a…friend of mine. We’re not super close, but I kinda thought we were getting to be, and then he just- disappears. So I did some digging, and I found out he’d been _arrested_ , which just doesn’t seem right at all. And for some pretty serious shit, too. Like, I know Peter. I know he wouldn’t do those things they said he did. And I read the records, and the reports, and—you’re his social worker, right?—I saw that you put in character testimony for him. You don’t believe he did it either.”

“Hold up,” Rhee interrupted. “You read his _records_? That boy is a minor. How in the hell did you get his records, and what in all fuck are you doing? Do you realize what a gross violation of privacy that is? Not to mention law. And I _know_ you’re not authorized to read sealed juvenile records, ‘Toby Keith.’” She had half a mind to haul him in herself.

“Yeah, well.” Satanic country stalker-boy shrugged, unapolagetic. “I tried to visit him in juvie, but he was gone before I got there. Thought it might help me find him, and then we could hook him up with a really good lawyer or something. My, um, my mentor said he’d pay for it if I found Peter. He really likes him, even if he pretends he doesn’t.”

“Nope,” said Rhee. “Rewind. We’re going back to the gross violation of privacy you did by breaking into sealed records. That’s a crime, Toby Keith. I could have you arrested for that.”

“Okay,” said stalker-boy. “Feel free to report me to the cops. It’s Keith Toby, by the way, not Toby Keith. I’m sure that they will definitely find me in the system.”

Rhee narrowed her eyes, liking him in spite of herself. Kid had balls. Resources, too. Not to mention money, which came from a mysterious mentor. _He could help_ , whispered a voice in her head. She knew better than to trust it without knowing who satanic stalker boy was and what he wanted.

Rhee considered. He knew Peter, somehow, but probably not from school or he would’ve already learned from Ned and MJ that she was a bust. She didn’t get the feel from him that this was gang-related, not that Peter had been involved in gang shit to her knowledge, but where the hell else would a kid with this much money have met Peter—oh. The Stark thing. He’d even started saying his last name with a St- before switching it over to ‘Tony.’

Rhee snorted as she figured it out and relaxed back onto the bench. “No,” she said. “Doubt they’d find anything around Keith Toby. Harley Keener, on the other hand, recently-adopted son of one Tony Stark, they might find him.” It explained why the kid had seemed so damned familiar-looking last night. His photo had been splashed all over the papers a few years ago, when Iron Man had suddenly decided for no known reason to adopt a tenth-grader from Tennessee.

“Fuck,” Harley swore. “Am I really that recognizable? I thought only my old school pics had leaked to the press so far, and I’ve kinda hit a growth spurt since I dropped out.”

“Nah,” said Rhee. “Not that recognizable. But I’m good at faces, and Peter only knows so many people.”

Harley’s face brightened. “He talked about me?”

“No,” said Rhee, ignoring how the boy deflated at that. “But he talked about his internship a lot.” She paused, then admitted, “It was the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

She focused her gaze back on Keener. “And he talked about his ‘boss’ all the time, who he said was…oh, let me see if I can directly quote this: ‘he’s really cool and honestly not that much older than me which makes it less weird cuz he’s also a kid and he doesn’t treat me like a circus trick and he’s a complete idiot and kind of an asshole but also really smart and really nice and really cool and also really tall but in a huggable way.’” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Any idea who he could have been talking about, Mr. Keener?” She felt a bit bad for outing Peter’s—friend crush? actual crush?—, but the warm blush and slow smile spreading across Harley Keener’s face was the confirmation she needed to know that he actually cared about her boy.

“He said that about me?” Harley squeaked out, and covered his face in his hands.

“Well,” drawled Rhee, “he said that about his boss. Were you his boss?”

“Kinda?” said Harley. “I mean, I supervised a lot of his projects, but he was more supervising me in a lot of them, especially anything to do with biochem or genetics. Kid’s a genius. Way smarter than me; smarter even than Tony, and Tony’s even admitted that a few times, so you know he’s the real deal. We were talking about making him a more permanent part of the—” he waved his hand in a circle, looking for a word, “you know, the group. The family. The Us. And then he just—disappeared. So you see why I gotta find him, yeah Ms. Isaacs?”

“Rhee,” said Rhee, almost absentmindedly. “Look, kid, I’m not gonna turn you in for hacking confidential databases or whatever it was you did to get those files because I’m not about getting children stuck in shitty situations with the police. But I can’t help you. Anything I know is strictly confidential, and—hypothetically—even if I did tell you everything I knew, there’s nothing that would be helpful that isn’t already in the kid’s file. Peter doesn’t want to be found, and I honestly can’t blame him for that. I worry, of course I worry, but like you said, kid’s a genius. And he’s tough. He’ll survive, and if he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.”

“Yeah,” said Harley, drooping again. “I just—It’s not fair. And I know that’s childish, but it’s—I have all this money now, and _fucking Iron Man_ , and I can’t do a damn thing and I’m _useless_!” He kicked the sidewalk. “Might as well still be fucking trailer trash back in Rose Hill for all the good I’m doing.”

“You’re from Rose Hill?” asked Rhee. At his withering look, she just pointed to herself and said, “Gadsden.”

“Really? No shit. That’s only like, 40 minutes.”

“Yeah.” She stared at the kids screaming in joy, swinging from the monkey bars or whatever it was kids did, but didn’t really see them. “Listen, Rose Hill.” She pulled out her personal phone, unlocked it, and handed it to him. “Text me so I have your number. I’ll reach out if I hear anything, or if there’s something that maybe a little Iron Man money could smooth out. You got me?”

Harley nodded and rubbed at his eyes. Rhee pretended not to notice he’d been crying.

When they parted ways, she made one quick phone call, and then texted that person Harley’s number. It was out of her hands now, and she had other kids to worry about. She did her best to ignore the twisted weight of guilt wrenching in her gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I measure every Grief I meet  
> With narrow, probing, eyes –   
> I wonder if It weighs like Mine –   
> Or has an Easier size.
> 
> I wonder if They bore it long –   
> Or did it just begin –   
> I could not tell the Date of Mine –   
> It feels so old a pain – 
> 
> I wonder if it hurts to live –   
> And if They have to try –   
> And whether – could They choose between –   
> It would not be – to die – 
> 
> I note that Some – gone patient long –   
> At length, renew their smile –   
> An imitation of a Light  
> That has so little Oil – 
> 
> I wonder if when Years have piled –   
> Some Thousands – on the Harm –   
> That hurt them early – such a lapse  
> Could give them any Balm – 
> 
> Or would they go on aching still  
> Through Centuries of Nerve –   
> Enlightened to a larger Pain –   
> In Contrast with the Love – 
> 
> The Grieved – are many – I am told –   
> There is the various Cause –   
> Death – is but one – and comes but once –   
> And only nails the eyes – 
> 
> There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –   
> A sort they call "Despair" –   
> There's Banishment from native Eyes –   
> In sight of Native Air – 
> 
> And though I may not guess the kind –   
> Correctly – yet to me  
> A piercing Comfort it affords  
> In passing Calvary – 
> 
> To note the fashions – of the Cross –   
> And how they're mostly worn –   
> Still fascinated to presume  
> That Some – are like my own –


	2. I-1. Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the main narrative. Some good ol' fashioned Spidey-happiness before everything goes to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for major character death (Aunt May)

Somehow, MJ had managed to become in charge of the Parker household kitchen. Peter wasn’t complaining; MJ was a freaking genius in the kitchen compared to Aunt May. Not that that was saying much. MJ’s repertoire was pretty much limited to bulk batches of rice or pasta with different vegetables and spices thrown in, but they were good spices, and she almost never burned their meals.

She threw a bag of onions at him. “Chop.”

Peter caught it with an oomph and saluted her.

“Ned, you’re on grating duty.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” Ned grinned and took the five-pound block of cheese from her hands. Peter had gotten it from the Costco in Rego Park. It was a bit of a trek from Rego Park all the way back to Forest Hills when you were laden down with bulk purchases, but spider-strength had to be useful for something, right? The $60 membership fee was so worth it when you were basically feeding three kids—one of them with an enhanced metabolism, so make that closer to six kids—and one adult on only May’s nursing salary.

The kitchen smelled like onions and cumin when May got home around six. MJ monitored the simmering beans and rice, glaring at them like they’d killed her firstborn, and absentmindedly flipped through a poetry book; Ned sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter doing his chemistry homework, occasionally running ideas and questions by Peter; and Peter paced back and forth on the ceiling in his spidey-suit while reading for English and bouncing ideas right back off Ned.

Peter heard the jingle of the keys and the familiar light trod of May’s sneakers well before she got to the apartment door. “May’s here,” he announced, flipping to the floor.

Sure enough, May let herself in a few seconds later. She hung up her keys and coat and waltzed into the kitchen with an easy smile. “What can I do, Michelle?”

MJ gave her a flat stare. “Nothing.”

“You’re on sitting-on-the-couch-and-watching-TV duty, May,” said Peter, when May looked ready to protest her banishment from the kitchen.

“Really, though, I can help,” offered May.

“Yup,” said Peter. “You can help by finding the trashiest reality TV show you can and reporting all the drama to us.” He jokingly steered her into the living room and pushed her down onto the couch. “Remote.” He handed it to her with a bow.

May pursed her lips and raised a skeptical brow at him, but he could tell she was suppressing a smile.

He perched on the back of the couch and spoke more quietly. “Seriously, May. You bought the food, you just pulled a double, and you let us stay here all the time.”

That, she outright frowned at. “I don’t _let_ you stay here, Peter. You live here. This is your home. You know that, right?”

“Well, yeah, duh,” he rolled his eyes, “but it’s not Ned and MJ’s, technically, and they’re here, like, every day now.” Ned’s parents were going through a nasty divorce, and Peter didn’t know much about MJ’s home life, but he knew it wasn’t great. Neither of them were particularly keen on going home after school, so they all ended up at May’s pretty late most nights.

May huffed and crossed her arms. “It is too Ned and MJ’s. I pay the rent, so I make the rules: this is your home, and your friends’ home, and it always will be.” She tweaked his nose and winked.

“Mayyyyy.” He groaned at the childish treatment.

She just grinned and settled into the couch. “Trashy reality TV, huh? I can do that.” She started flipping through the suggested shows on various streaming services. “We’ve got…Dance Moms, The Circle, Love Island, umm…Big Rig Bounty Hunters, Say Yes to the Dress, 90 Day Fiancé. Any of these catching your fancy, kids?”

“You have Netflix, yeah?” MJ called from the kitchen. Without waiting for an answer, she kept going on. “Play ‘My Secret Super Life.’ It’s this vigilante down in Tampa who decided it would be a good idea to have a camera crew following him everywhere. Calls himself ‘Gator Guy.’ He’s like a cross between Daredevil and Dog the Bounty Hunter wrapped up in ten layers of toxic masculinity and a rip-off Spiderman suit, and I wanna see Peter’s full body squirm when he’s forced to watch it.”

Peter gasped in horror. “No, MJ, please, don’t do this to me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aunt May’s eyes were dancing with suppressed laughter. “Seems pretty entertaining to me. Like vicariously watching what my favorite friendly neighborhood superhero should _not_ be doing.”

“Oh my god, MJ, you’re the worrrstt.” Peter pouted and sank onto the floor. “May, you’re also the worst.”

“Yup,” MJ agreed easily. “Bowls, Spider-boy.”

Peter groaned and jumped onto the wall to reach the top shelf of the cabinet where they kept the bowls. It had been super inconvenient before Peter got his powers, but storage space was tight in the city. Now Peter was forever on reaching-things-up-high duty. He imagined this was kind of what it would be like to be tall. Maybe one day.

They all settled around the TV with dinner: rice, beans, onions, and peppers topped with a small mountain of grated cheese and sour cream. Peter got his in a mixing bowl so he didn’t have to keep flipping into the kitchen for refills. They tossed around a thing of Cholula for extra spicyness and flavor, and May hit play.

The show was just as bad as Peter feared it would be. Plenty of nightmare fuel for May, plus so many opportunities for MJ to tease him, and Ned just kept geeking out about how Peter could do it better than the guy on the screen, who, yeah, was completely incompetent and definitely more of a danger to the community than a protector.

“He’s just a dude with a tazer and neon green body armor. How is that a superhero?” Ned was outraged. “Like, he doesn’t even have powers.”

“Nah,” disagreed MJ. “First of all: he says he was dumped into a radioactive vat, a la Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, so he’s at least _claiming_ to have powers. And radioctive damage would explain all the open sores.”

“Don’t forget the mullet,” added Aunt May. “There’s gotta be some powers there to keep it that…mullet-y.”

“Right.” MJ nodded seriously. “Second: he’s got an animal theme going with that crocodile mask and those questionable tattoos. Animal theme obviously makes you a super, right, Peter?”

Peter groaned and stuffed a pillow over his face.

“Isn’t he supposed to be an alligator? You know, ‘Gator Guy’?” asked Ned.

“Yup,” said MJ, popping her p’s. “But that—that is a crocodile mask, because our hero obviously doesn’t know basic biology. And you’re distracting me from my third and final point: you don’t need to have powers to be a superhero. Tony Stark doesn’t have powers, or Black Widow.”

“Yeah, but that’s Tony Stark,” protested Ned. “He’s like, a genius and a billionaire and-”

MJ silenced him with a look. “Are you saying that only rich, white, genius billionaires can benon-powered superheros, and not your local idiot meth dealer, just because he likely didn’t have the access to to the same educational and economic opportunities as a literal billionaire to build a high-tech weaponized exoskeleton in order to indulge in his hypermasculine fantasies of violent vigilantism?”

Peter did chuckle a little at that, face still buried in the pillow. “He’s not a superhero, because he’s not a _hero_ ,” he finally joined the fray. “He’s not doing hero things. Like, if I saw that dude here in the city, you can bet he’d be webbed up pronto before he can go tazing any more little old ladies because he broke into the _wrong_ apartment and didn’t think before just trying to subdue everyone in there like a real-ass bad guy.”

“Point,” MJ acknowledged. “Though, to be fair, the police do that too, except with real guns instead of stun ones, and plenty of people call _them_ heroes.”

“Point,” Peter echoed back, and smiled at her. “But I don’t think anyone in this room would argue that the boys in blue are _superheroes_.”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes, but nodded her acknowledgment of his point.

After the first episode ended, Peter got up and stretched. “Well, now that I’ve seen this wonderful demostration on how to be a superhero-”

“Don’t even joke about that, young man,” Aunt May cut him off.

“Okay, okay,” Peter raised his hands in surrender. “I am going on patrol, though.”

“Dishes first.”

“Ugh, fine.”

Peter washed, Ned dried, and MJ packed up the leftovers to take home. It was a familiar routine, and quickly done. Peter was bouncing with energy and wanted nothing more than to jump out the window, but Aunt May stopped him before he could. “You have money for the doctor? It’s the 31st.”

“Yes, May.” He tapped a hidden pocket that she’d helped him sew into his costume. It still made his stomach flip-flop carrying that much money on him, but Peter seriously owed his doctor for giving him hormone blockers and T without the mandatory blood tests, and those things were expensive if you weren’t going through insurance.

“Good. You have your phone?”

“Yes, May.”

“The new one, not the broken old one?”

“Yes, May.” He fished it out of the phone pocket that May had sewed into his costume. It was a cheap flip phone, because Peter had managed to break five phones in his first three weeks superheroing and his phone insurance no longer covered him.

“Alarm on?”

“Yes, May,” he lied, and he could feel his face beginning to glow bright red.

“Hmph.” May saw right through him. “Hand it here.” She held out a hand expectantly.

“But May-” he sighed and handed it over.

She fiddled around with it for thirty seconds or so, then handed it back to him. “Don’t, ‘but May’ me, young man. You are lucky I’m letting you patrol at all. Text me, yes? Every hour on the hour.”

“Okay, yeah, but the alarm is not super great for crime fighting, because if I’m trying to be stealthy and it just goes off, it kind of ruins the point of being stealthy, because then the bad guys can just hear me, and then they know where I am, and-”

“You should’ve thought of that when you forgot to check in five nights in a row. The alarm stays on, and you check in every hour. Promise?”

Peter sighed. “Yes, May. Promise.” He tugged on his mask. “I love you.” The words were muffled by the cloth.

“I love you too, Pete.” She kissed his forehead.

“I love you too, Peter!!” called Ned from the couch.

Peter beamed. “Love you, Ned.”

“I am not a super emotionally expressive person, but you’re cool, I guess. Don’t die.” That was MJ.

“Right back at’cha.” Peter clicked some double finger guns at her as he backed towards the fire escape.

“Dork,” she said.

“Right. See ya, fam!” he called out as he swung out the window.

With his enhanced senses, he could hear May chuckle fondly under her breath. “That boy’s gonna be the death of me, I swear.”

* * *

Patrol was a breeze. He stopped two muggings and one attempted burglary, helped a mother carry her bed-bug infested couch down a six flight walk-up (and then spent an hour and a half making sure he didn’t have any of the creatures or their eggs stuck to his suit), and hung upsidedown from a lamppost to supervise while the police were doing their weekly round-up-the-homeless people thing, which was the _worst_. At least the lampost gave him plenty of light to check for bedbugs while he kept an ear out for any bad behavior.

He was walking on the rim of the rooftops, balancing with his hands out like a tightrope walker, when a soft curse and the sound of metal against metal from a few blocks over caught his ear. He put his phone on vibrate and swung silently over to a building that gave him a good vantage point to the street below. A smallish figure was sawing away at a bike chain that attached a glittery rainbow adult-sized bicycle to a low fence, and they were not doing a very good job of it. Peter flipped down from the roof in a triple-backflip and webbed them to the wall all in one fluid motion.

“Thought I’d drop by,” said Peter, rising from a bow, “and give you a friendly reminder from your local Spiderman: it’s not nice to steal things. They cover that in, like, Kindergarten I think. Do you need a refresher? I could go over the ABCs too.”

“Oh my god,” said the bike thief, still stuck to the wall. “Oh my god, you’re _Spiderman_. This is so cool.” They breamed like it was the best day of their life.

“Is it?” Peter’s voice cracked halfway through, and he knew he was hardcore blushing under the mask. “Gotta say, that’s not usually the reaction I get from bikejackers when I nab ’em.” He frowned. “Bikejackers. Is that a word? Because carjackers is definitely a word, and it’s the same basic concept, so you would think it would be a word, but now that I’ve just said it out loud it really doesn’t sound like it is a real word. Maybe ‘bikenapper’, you know, like kidnapper, except for a bike. But then, for purses, it’s purse-snatcher. Do you know what the word is for a person who steals bikes? I figure, you’re in the business and all…”

“Um, I…have no idea?” said the bikenapper. “Oh, and also I’m not a bikesnatcher, or whatever. That’s my bike; I just kind lost the key, I think?”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “You sound so certain about that.”

Now it was the bikenapper’s turn to blush. “I mean, it is my bike,” they said, more definitively now. “It’s definitely my bike.”

That was when Peter’s phone started vibrating. “Oh, shoot,” he said. “Give me a second. I gotta take this it’s from my Au-my, uh…boss. Yeah, my boss.”

He picked up the phone, checked the caller ID. May. He might have been a few—or more than a few—minutes late for his hourly check-in. “Hi, boss,” he said, voice going through three different octaves. “It is very nice to hear from you. I am in the middle of working on that…project, and so am a bit busy right now. But everything is fine and dandy. I am a-okay and all good.”

“Uh-huh,” said May. “Everything is only a-okay and all good in this household when you check in _on time_. You hear me, Peter Benjamin Parker?”

“Yes, Au-Boss. I hear you.”

“All right. Ned and MJ have gone home, and you should start heading home soon too, yeah?”

“Okay. I still need to swing by the doctor’s office, but then I’ll be there.”

“Great. See you soon. I love you, Peter.”

“I love you too.” He hung up the phone.

“You…love your boss?” asked the bikenapper.

“Shut up,” Peter snapped. “I’m not the one who has to defend myself here. _You_ were stealing this bike.”

“Yeah, but it’s _my bike_ ,” the thief argued. They sighed, and blew the bangs out of their face. “See the dent in the frame, there? That’s from when me and my sister decided to try and tie our bikes together to be a tandem bike and she whipped me face-first into a wall. Still got the scar from it, ya thee?” This last bit was lisped because the bikenapper was using their tongue to point to the scar just above their lip, their hands being currently occupied what with being webbed to the wall. “Thith whole tooth ith fake too.”

“I mean, cool story,” said Peter, “and nice scar”—Peter was actually a bit jealous of people with scars; he felt he deserved a few after the number of scrapes he’d been in—“but that doesn’t really prove you own the bike?”

“Oh! Right,” said the bike-thief. “Um, there’s probably a picture of me on it on my phone. Scratch that, there’s definitely a picture because that was the first thing my sister did when I crashed, instead of, you know, getting medical help. My phone’s on the ground, over there.” They nodded at it. “You can unlock it with my face.”

Peter shrugged. He didn’t see any reason not too, so he went and picked up the phone. “Aw, shoot. Please tell me your screen was already cracked before I webbed you to the wall?”

“Yup,” said the bikenapper. “No worries, Spiderman. I’m a certifiable disaster.”

“Hard same.” Peter nodded and held up the phone so that it could unlock and started going through the pictures after getting an okay from bike-snatcher. “So why were you stealing your own bike?”

“Um, honestly? It kinda got stolen from _me_ , and it’s my only way to get to work unless I want to walk an hour and half both ways because I sort of can’t afford a Metrocard right now and the busses are shit anyway, so when I saw it chained up here I just thought…” They trailed off. “I’m not really a thief kind of person, you know? I just wanted my bike back. But, uh, I have no idea how to actually saw through a bike chain, or break a lock or anything. I was just kinda…hitting it.”

Peter found the bike picture. There was actually more than one bike picture, including a selfie of (presumably) the sister, grinning like a demon, while the current bikenapper was curled on the ground on top of the bike with a great deal of blood everywhere.

The bike was very clearly recognizable, with the glitter and the rainbow and the dent, so Peter decided this one was probably on him. “Sorry for webbing you to the wall,” he said. “I just kinda thought you were doing crime.”

“No big,” said the not-bikenapper. “I mean, I get it. Looks shady as hell, and that’s your whole thing, stopping shady people. I’m here for it. Means my sister’s a bit safer walking herself to school, you know? She’s in sixth grade now, just started middle school.”

“Aw, good for her!” said Peter. He uncapped a bottle of web-dissolver and carefully poured it over part of the tied up kid. “Middle school can be rough.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Anyway, um,” Peter looked around surreptitiously, then snapped the bike lock off. “Don’t do crime. Stay in school. All that good stuff.”

“Thanks, Spideman!” The not-thief grinned. “Um, this is kinda embarrassing, but do you think I could get a selfie with you? My whole family’s all huge fans, and my sister would absolutely flip.”

“Oh,” said Peter, “yeah, uh, sure. Wow, fans. Sure, definitely. Thanks for being so chill about the whole webbed-to-the-wall thing.”

“Are you kidding? That was hands-down one of the coolest things that has ever happened to me! And then you did, like, five backflips as you were coming down, and that was, like, wow.”

Peter grinned and took the selfie.

After that, he swung through the open basement window of the good ol’ Ridgewood GSC, which was closed for the night.

“Hi Dr. Reyez!” he called. “Did you know I have fans? Because I just met a fan. Like, an actual, honest-to-goodness fan of my work. Isn’t that so cool?”

“I’m a fan of you, Spidey,” said Dr. Reyez, coming out of her office.

“You are?” said Peter, blushing under the mask. “Really?”

Dr. Reyez rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m a fan. You stopped those transphobic idiots from firebombing our clinic with me inside. I think it’s pretty much mandatory that I have to be a fan of yours.”

“Yeah, but this person didn’t even know me beforehand! And I didn’t save them. I, um, actually kinda accidentally-on-purpose webbed them, and they were _still_ a fan.”

Dr. Reyez raised an eyebrow as she prepped her kit. “Accidentally-on-purpose? Arm.”

He held out his arm so she could fasten the blood pressure cuff around it. “Well, I thought they were kinda shady, and in my defense, they were stealing a bike, but it turned out they owned the bike so it was okay and we got it all sorted out and then they asked for a selfie with me!”

“Oooh,” said Dr. Reyez. “Big man about town, are you now? Promise not to forget me when you become too famous for this lil’ old town.”

“I could never forget you, Dr. Reyez,” said Peter. “You are the absolute best, and also completely irreplacable and I will be coming to you until I die.”

She frowned at him. “You better not, bucko, because you are a child and I am in my late forties. Something is seriously wrong if you find yourself dying before I do.”

“Sorry, Dr. Reyez.” Peter hung his head. She really was completely irreplacable, though. Peter didn’t know any other doctors who would give him safe hormone blockers and T shots and then destroy all of his lab work so that no one could study his freaky spider genes. That had been the worst part, actually, of being bitten, was realizing that he couldn’t continue blockers without some serious red flags popping up on his medical chart. Dr. Reyez ran the tests, made sure he was safe, and faked the paperwork saying his blood was normal. She couldn’t cover him under any insurance, though, or his name would be tied to it, so they had to pay out-of-pocket. The testosterone wasn’t horrible, about a two hundred bucks a month, but the hormone blockers ran at about twelve hundred dollars when you didn’t have insurance. Dr. Reyez had cut him a deal where he only (ha! only) paid a thousand bucks a month for both, and he knew that the extra four hundred came out of her own pocket. It was still a big stress, but May and Dr. Reyez insisted it wasn’t a problem, so Peter kept his guilt buried deep inside and got a job working for Mr. Delmar in the mornings before school so he could contribute. It almost covered the whole thing.

Once Dr. Reyez had run and destroyed his tests, she declared him good-to-go for another month and sent him on his way with a doggie bag of big boy shots.

Peter decided to take a direct-ish route home, not wanting to worry May too much by staying out much later. It was early September, so the sky was still a little light despite the fact it was well past 9:00. He’d swing from Ridgewood to Glendale, then Glendale to Forest Hills. Easy easy, low-crime route.

He was on a rooftop in Glendale when May called him again.

He picked up with a groan. “Oh my god, May, we literally _just_ talked. It’s only been like, forty minutes and I told you I was on my way home and I was and I am and I will be there in like-”

“Is this Peter Parker?” The voice was male, serious, and decidedly not May.

Peter froze. He checked the caller ID, squinting to read the little flip-phone through his goggles, which were admittedly not the clearest. “Who is this?” he asked the phone, his voice sounding very far away. “What did you do with May?”

“I’m Detective John Harper with the NYPD, and I need to speak with Peter Parker, please.”

“What? Why? Did something happen to May?” The world was spinning, and not in a good way, and his voice sounded very very small in his ears which were very very far from the ground.

“Peter, I’m sorry, could you just confirm your identity before I say anything else?”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, this is Peter. Please, please tell me May is okay.”

“I’m so sorry, Peter. Your aunt is being taken to the hospital, and it’s quite serious. It sounded like you were on your way home. I can meet you at your apartment and drive you to the hospital to see her. We can discuss what happened on the way over.”

No. No no no no no no nononono. “What-what hospital? What happened?” he forced the words out.

The voice on the phone sighed. “Jamaica. And I really think it’s best if we discuss this in person-”

“Jamaica,” said Peter. “Ok. I’ll go straight there. That’s faster.” Some distant part of his brain noted that it wasn’t faster at all unless you had web-slinging powers. “I’m um—about to get on the E anyway.” _Good excuse, Parker_. “I’ll meet you there. Bye.”

He hung up, stared at the phone and the street spinning below him, and took a running leap off the roof. There was only one thought in his head, overwhelming everything else: get to May.

He couldn’t remember the trip from that rooftop to the hospital except in jagged flashes: a car breaking too hard below him; the mad dash across Forest Park before he could take to the skies again; a pigeon desperately swerving to avoid smacking straight into his head; the inky sunset leeching across the horizon; the shocked expression of the street clothing vendor as he grabbed something to cover his suit and shoved money at the man; the face of the intake nurse, serene and unbothered by his panic; the taste of blood in his mouth as he sprinted up the stairs, unable to wait for the elevators. Just flashes of vision through his goggles, no noise but his heartbeat in his ears.

It took him ten minutes to get from that rooftop in Glendale to Jamaica Hospital Medical Center.In a car, that would have taken at least fifteen. Another five minutes to find the room with Aunt May in it.

In the end, it didn’t matter. He was too late.


	3. I-2. The Boy in the Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May Parker is dead. Rhee Isaacs, Social Worker for the City of New York, Queens County, meets her newest case: one Peter Benjamin Parker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the first one where we actually deal with the ramifications of May's death. This chapter focuses more on some of the horrible mundanities of death, rather than the emotional fallout. That will come later, from Peter's perspective.

Rhee hated the night shift. Night calls were always bad. If it was day, people generally had time to prepare. Not always, but most of the time. There was warning. It wasn’t ‘oh, sorry kid, your whole entire life has been turned upside down, now let’s do some paperwork, yeah?’ The day calls were morelike ’oh, sorry, kid, your life has been shit for a while but we’ve already done most of the paperwork, so let’s tear you from your family, now, ok?’ That was slightly more manageable.

Rhee signed up for the night shift anyway. She hated herself more than she hated it.

She got the call at 10:12pm. NYPD. They gave her their current understanding of the case, clinical words and off the record. Suspect, likely an addict, broke into a Forest Hills apartment through the fire escape and startled the resident, a May Parker, who confronted the intruder with a cutting board to the face. A struggle ensued, and the suspect pushed Ms. Parker into the sink. She hit her head on the stainless steel and was seriously injured. The intruder had called an ambulance when Ms. Parker failed to awaken, and turned herself into police custody when the cops accompanying the EMTs showed up. Ms. Parker was rushed to Jamaica Center Hospital, and was in critical care. Cops at the apartment saw signs she had a son living in the house, and called Rhee in. Thank god the kid hadn’t been there.

She received two updates on her way to the hospital: one, they’d managed to find the kid, a fourteen-year-old high school sophomore named Peter—apparently he was Ms. Parker’s nephew, not her son; and two, Ms. Parker had been declared dead ten minutes after arriving at the hospital. Rhee sighed, and girded herself. This was going to be a hard one.

May Parker’s body was in hospital room #512. Two cops stood tired sentry at the door, and Rhee exchanged brief status reports with them. The kid was there, and he hadn’t said a word to any of them, not when the doctors had informed him that his aunt was dead, not when the cops gave him a censored rundown of the night’s happenings.

Rhee knocked gently on the doorframe. Cops had said he was fourteen, but Rhee would’ve pegged him and twelve: small and scrawny beneath overlarge sweats, with a messy mop of light brown curls obscuring his face. Oddly, he had a pair of swimming goggles pushed up on his head. He sat slumped next to the hospital bed, holding his Aunt’s hand. She was too still to be sleeping, but looked oddly unharmed for the victim of a burglary gone bad. The only wound was in the back of her head, Rhee recalled, covered by hair and not visible from this angle. She was beautiful, and young—perhaps thirty-five or so—and you could see the faded imprints of what would have become smile lines and crow’s feet etched lovingly into her now-blank face.

The kid—Peter—didn’t react to her knock. She entered the room slowly, no sudden movements, and made her voice soft. “Peter?”

His reaction was delayed, but he did respond to his name, raising his head to meet her gaze with a dull, unseeing stare.

“Peter, my name is Rhee Isaacs. I’m a social worker with the City of New York. I know this is difficult, but I need to talk to you. Would you like to have the door open or closed for our conversation?”

He blinked, the words obviously not registering.

Rhee nodded and took the door handle. “Is it all right if I close the door? Make it a bit quieter in here?”

He slumped back over his aunt, and Rhee took that as acquiescence, if not consent.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to close the door, but we can open it back up again if you want.” She shut it with a soft _click_ , muting the outside world. She pulled one of the visiting chairs closer to Peter.“Is it all right if I sit here?”

He looked at her again, still blank, and shrugged minutely.

Rhee sat and looked at him. God, the kid was tiny. She let him sit in silence for ten minutes. The hospital needed the room vacated by midnight, but they still had over an hour before that deadline came up. He could at least be given a brief moment of quiet.

Ten minutes passed too quickly. The kid obviously wasn’t ready to talk, but they needed to discuss logistics, at least for the night.

“Hi, Peter,” she said. “Is that what you like to be called: Peter?”

He looked at her, every movement weighted down with a terrible tiredness and grief, and nodded.

“Okay. I’m Rhee, and I’m a social worker with the City of New York.”

“You said that already, Ms. Isaacs.” His voice was small and quiet and hadn’t yet broken. There was no emotion in it.

Rhee blinked. She thought for sure he hadn’t even registered that introduction. “I guess I did,” she said. “We’re gonna take this one step at a time, okay? I need to ask you some questions, and then we’re gonna make sure you have a safe space to spend the night. That’s all we’re gonna do tonight, okay?”

“I guess.”

“Let me know if it gets to be too much, and we’ll take a break.”

He didn’t respond to that, but Rhee was pretty sure he understood.

“Would you like some water, or a snack before we begin?”

He responded only by gesturing his free arm vaguely at the bedside table, still moving like he was underwater. She spotted a plastic cup and an unopened pack of Skittles resting there.

“Okay. Detective Anderson told me you were living in your aunt’s apartment. Did she have custody of you?”

Nod.

“Great, thank you. And it was just the two of you in that apartment?”

Nod.

“Okay. Is there anyone else who you are currently living with, or anyone who has shared custody of you?”

He shook his head no.

“So your aunt had sole custody?”

He flinched at her use of the past tense, but nodded.

“Thank you, Peter, you’re doing great. Do you have a trusted adult who you would feel comfortable staying the night with tonight? A relative, perhaps, or a close friend’s parents?”

He looked lost. “A- a close friend? I can do that?”

“Mm-hm.” She nodded. “You’re old enough that you should have a great deal of say in where you go. This isn’t custody, or permanent guardianship, or anything long-term—though it could become that if you and the adult in question are willing and able—but for tonight, it makes sense for you to stay somewhere that you already know, where you feel safe. You think there’s a friend whose house you would like to stay at?” She didn’t mention family again; it was clear from his initial question that friend was preferable to family in the kid’s mind.

“Uh—y-yeah, yeah. My friend Ned. Ned Leeds. His mom—they live in Jackson Heights. I- we do sleepovers, sometimes.”

“Great, that’s great. Do you have her contact information? We can get the ball rolling there before we get to the rest of the questions.”

“Um, sure. Yeah.” He pulled a battered flip-phone out of his pocket. The thing was a cheap hunk of plastic, and he hunched over it for a moment before handing it over to her.

There was a contact listed only as ‘Ned’s Mom’ on the tiny, cracked screen. Rhee hadn’t realized that flip-phone screens could even crack.

“Perfect. Would you like to call her, or would you like me to do it?”

The boy paled, and bewildered terror flashed across his face.

“No worries, I’ve got it,” Rhee headed off his fear. “Would you like me to be here while I’m calling, or out of the room?”

His eyes skittered around the room. “Uh—out.”

“Okay. Do you have a preference between her picking you up here, or me dropping you off there.”

“There,” this was the first question Peter answered with no hesitation. “I don’t- I don’t want Ned to see…” He trailed off and gestured around the room helplessly.

“Of course. I’ll be right back, Peter, okay?”

He nodded tightly. He’d gone from slumped exhaustion to a tense, focus energy. His leg bounced against the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice it.

“Okay. Oh, do you know her first name?”

“Uh…Eleanor.”

“Thank you.” Rhee slipped out of the room, already dialing, and mouthed to Peter, ‘ _Right back_.’

She had a contingency plan in place, of course, for if Eleanor Leeds refused, but she doubted it would be necessary. Peter seemed to trust her, and Rhee had almost never had a friend’s mom turn down the ask for a kid to spend just one night.

Eleanor Leeds was no exception, and Rhee got through the phone call with a minimum of difficulty. The main thing was convincing the woman not to drag herself and her son to the hospital right then and there. “Peter needs some space right now,” said Rhee. “And I think he would really appreciate it if you could provide something that’s separate from everything that’s happened tonight.” That did the trick. Rhee promised to call them when she and Peter left the hospital, and warned them it might be a while. Rhee was going to get this kid as much time as she could before he had to say a final goodbye to his Aunt.

She slipped back into Peter’s room less than five minutes after beginning the phone call. He was now holding on to his aunt’s hand with both of his own hands, but other than that did not seem to have moved at all during her phone call. “That’s settled, then. You’ll be staying at Ned’s house for the night, and we can sort out further logistics tomorrow, when you’ve had a bit of rest, okay?”

Some of the tension drained out of the boy’s body, and she knew he’d heard her.

“Now that that’s taken care of, are you up for a few more questions?”

“Can’t you just look at my file?” he muttered, sullen.

Rhee raised an eyebrow. “You have a CPS file?”

He nodded. “I’m adopted.”

Jesus, poor kid. Going through this twice in his life. She let no hint of her thoughts onto her face, keeping instead her professional and slightly detached demeanor. “I can’t look at it tonight, because everything is in hard copy and the office is closed. Besides, I’d rather hear your account of things first.”

He ground his jaw and swallowed. “Fine.”

“Thank you, Peter. You’re being really brave.”

“No, I’m not.”

“It might not feel like it, but-”

“No, I’m not!” He pushed himself up with tightly coiled energy and stared her down. His chair clattered against the wall. He was trembling. Standing up, he was only a few inches taller than her in the chair.

Rhee didn’t startle. She met his gaze. “From where I’m sitting-”

A knock sounded on the door. “Everything okay in there?” asked one of the cops.

Rhee snorted. Of course everything wasn’t okay; kid had just lost all his family. “Just peachy, gentlemen,” she called back, trying not to let her voice get too bitter.

From the kid’s huff, she hadn’t quite succeeded.

Rhee tilted her head and considered him. “You wanna answer the questions standing or sitting?”

He frowned at her. Then—“sitting,” he said, and collected his fallen chair. He dragged it back over to the hospital bed and entwined his arms around his aunt’s forearm, palms pressed on either side of her limp hand.

“Thank you.”

His mouth twitched in annoyance when she thanked him, and Rhee pressed on before that became a whole thing. “You’ve had some experience with the system, it sounds like. Would you like to summarize that for me, or shall I go through my pre-prepared list of questions?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment, brow creased in thought. His voice was emotionless and rote when he spoke, listing off facts. “I was born here, in Queens. My parents were Richard and Mary Parker. They died in a plane crash when I was four. Ben—my Uncle Ben, he was my father’s brother—and May took me in after that. They were married,” he elaborated, gesturing to May’s corpse in the hospital bed. “That was a permanent guardianship, kinship placement or whatever, but I was never formally adopted. Then last year-”

His jaw trembled, but he forced himself on. Rhee could tell it was an effort for him to maintain his dispassionate spiel, but maintain it he did. “Ben died. It was a botched mugging. I was there. I watched him bleed out. I tried to-” He tightened his jaw. “They got the guy. We had to do some mandatory counseling or training or something after that, because May wasn’t technically my mom, just my guardian, and CPS mandated PTSD or trauma training or something when an event like that happened. And since May and I aren’t blood related, she thought it would be a good idea to, you know, actually formalize it. So she adopted me. The papers went through five weeks ago. And now this.”

Rhee’s heart wrenched. She didn’t let any sympathy show on her face, though. Too often kids mistook it for pity, and she was sure Peter would be one of those who took offense. “That really sucks,” she said instead, a simple statement of fact.

“Yup,” said Peter.

“Anything else important you think I should know before I go through my list of boring questions? Medical history, allergies, stuff that’s important to you?” That was a real fucking broad question, but Rhee thought Peter could handle it and would appreciate her trust of his judgment.

He narrowed his eyes at her, appraising. His knuckles were white around May’s. “I used to have asthma,” he said. “I don’t anymore.”

Rhee nodded. “Good to know. Do you have an inhaler you keep with you just in case?”

“Don’t carry it around anymore, but I got one in my room.”

“Would you like to pick some things up from your apartment tonight on the way to Ned’s? You don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to.”

He answered before she even finished the question. “Yes. I need—my things, my pjs, my laptop, toothbrush, all my, you know, things. Chargers. Underwear.”

Rhee nodded. “Of course. Anything else? On the ‘things I should know’ front, not the ‘things to pick up from your apartment’ front,” she clarified. The studying look he’d given her earlier had not been an ‘I used to have asthma’ look.

He didn’t answer immediately, sizing her up once more.

“Your hair’s really short,” he said, catching her completely off guard. “Why?”

Rhee stiffened, immediately on edge. Jesus Fucking Christ, where did that come from? She got that from the younger kids a lot, and didn’t mind so much if they asked to feel if it was fuzzy, but this boy was a _teenager_. He hadn’t raised any of her ‘awkward around a black person’ bells either, at least up to this point, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t one of those well-meaning but oblivious types. _Calm down, Rhee_ , she told herself, _he’s just a kid, and he looks really…scared?_ Huh. What the hell was this kid getting at, with— _oh_.

“Gay,” she said, pretty certain she’d figured out his game.

He closed his eyes and exhaled. For the first time that night, she saw a tear slip down his cheek. _Thank God_ , he mouthed, and his lips were trembling.

Rhee was suddenly overwhelmed with the entirely reasonable desire to stab anybody who’d even _think_ about looking at this kid wrong.

“Me too,” he said.

“Cool,” she said, and held a hand out for a fistbump. That felt like the appropriate reaction.

He stared at her hand and scuffed his shoe on the floor. “Well, not exactly.”

Rhee let her fist relax and tried to tamp down the hurt that he’d left her hanging. “I’m listening,” she said.

He swung his leg back and forth, looking anywhere but at her. “Queer, I guess…?”

“Awesome,” she said. “You also don’t need to be wedded to any labels, and it’s cool if you-”

“I’m a guy,” he interrupted, almost painfully abrupt. He then went cherry red.

It took her less than a second to understand what he was getting at. “Gotcha,” she said. “He/him?”

His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah. But it’s not on all of my papers yet, so…it kinda makes things difficult.”

“Gotta love obstructive bureaucracy and cisnormative societal structures,” she said.

That got a watery chuckle out of him. It was the first time she’d seen him smile, even if it was a tiny, tentative thing. “They’re the best,” he said weakly.

“Don’t I know it, kid.” She sent him another appraising look, reevaluating his tiny stature and baggy clothes. “You on blockers?”

He nodded. “Since I was ten. And T, 50 milligrams of testosterone enanthate—delastryl—a week.”

“We’ll make sure to keep you on that, then, if it’s working for you. How long until you need a refill?” Appointments for hormone replacement therapy were a fucking bitch to get, especially since the kid would be changing insurance. Even if he’d already been on medicaid, there were special procedures for kids in the foster system.

A look of dawning horror crossed his face at her questions, and Rhee realized Peter must be having similar thoughts. “Um.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, straightfaced. “I will get you those appointments and bloodwork and whatever you need if I have to kidnap the doctor to do it.”

He paled and just stared at her.

“That was a joke, kid.”

He swallowed and laughed nervously. “Right, right.”

She sighed. “Seriously, though, how soon do you need an appointment? Because I can push that to the front of my priority lane.”

“Ummm…” Peter had been remarkably strong all night, but she could see he was starting to lose his cool. Or maybe it was just the shock wearing off. “I have four months left on my prescription, I think?” His voice went all high and wobbly when he spoke.

“Great,” said Rhee. “Okay. Thank you, Peter." She took a breath. "Well, I think that’s probably enough horribly retraumatizing and invasive questions for the night, don’t you? I’ll grab your file tomorrow and we can start going through everything else then. If you feel comfortable with it, you can also point me to any paperwork in your apartment that might be useful.”

Peter’s exhausted collapse back into his chair was the only thing she needed to know she’d made the right call stopping the questions tonight.

She sat with him there until just before midnight, and managed to get him out of the hospital room before the morgue attendants came to collect the body. He finally allowed himself to be torn from his Aunt's corpse with a gut-wrenching wail. He didn't cry. She drove them to the Parker apartment in silence and managed to snag a parking spot right outside.

The apartment was still roped off as a crime scene, but the tech stationed there let them collect an overnight bag for Peter without a fuss. They arrived at the Leeds household just after 1:00am, and Rhee was satisfied that the boy would be safe there. The apartment was small and a bit shitty, but the walls were soaked through with the warm scent of spices that could only come from years of home-cooked food, and the place was impeccably clean. The second Eleanor Leeds opened the door, her son streaked past her to glom onto Peter in a full-body hug. The two still hadn’t disentangled themselves when Rhee left almost half an hour later, having gone over the necessary procedures with Eleanor.

Before leaving the Leeds apartment, she used their bathroom and checked her email on her phone. One message from work, forty minutes old by now, with a new name and an address. _Okay. This is fine._

Rhee got in her shitty old Toyota and drove to a random parking lot. She set herself a timer for ten minutes, and screamed into the steering wheel. She let herself cry in deep, wracking sobs at the unfairness of it all. She let herself cry for Peter Parker, and for the awkward, unloved queer kid she once had been, shuffled from home to home until she aged out of the system. And she prayed that this would not be Peter’s fate.

Then her timer went off, and she stopped her tears, fixed her makeup, and calmly drove back to meet her next kid going through the worst day of their life.


	4. I-3. Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has good friends who are there for him in his grief. Also, there are so many logistics that you have to deal with when your adult has died.

Peter woke up with a pleasant soreness that came from a really deep sleep. He should try this sleep thing more often; it actually felt good. Who knew? He and Ned were both crammed into the bottom bunk of Ned’s bed, the laptop they’d been watching movies on last night still open on top of the covers, but its screen was blank and dead. Oops. They must have fallen asleep while watching-

 _Oh_. _May is dead_. The thought was utterly foreign and utterly horrible. _May is dead and he’d been sleeping in. May is dead and Peter wasn’t there. May is dead and he hadn’t even noticed. May is dead and Peter had been luxuriating_. May is dead.

“Oh shit,” came a groggy voice from next to him. “Forgot to plug the laptop in.” Then Ned froze and blinked at Peter, the events of last night obviously catching up to him. “Wow, I am the most insensitive friend ever. That was a shitty first sentence of the day. Sorry, dude.” He sent an apologetic glance at Peter, but it wasn’t overly ‘oh my god I broke the traumatized kid please let me offer up my life in self-flagellation’, so Peter wasn’t annoyed and actually was kind of amused. It had been one of his first thoughts of the day too.

Peter laughed. He laughed because it was funny and he couldn’t help himself and wow what was _wrong_ with him May was _dead_ and he was laughing, but he couldn’t stop, he was shaking, tears streaming down his face and he was crying, and he wasn’t sure when the transition had happened or if there even was one but now he was sobbing, sobbing, sobbing and clinging to Ned, fingers grabbing tight grip of his t-shirt and then he was laughing again? Because this was ridiculous. It was funny. It was downright comical. It was—what was the word for this? MJ would know; he’d have to ask her—it was _farcical_ , and Peter was laughing.

He finally calmed himself down into hiccuped gasps and wiped his face with the heel of his hand. He looked at Ned—who was somewhere between bemused and concerned, with a dash of ‘not really awake’ for good measure—and asked, “What the fuck was that, man?”

“Ummm…grief?” offered Ned.

“Oh, yes, the hysterical laugh-cry stage of grief. Everyone knows that one. It’s my favorite.” He was about to enter into it again.

“Well,” said Ned, thoughtfully, “you’ve had a lot of people die, so you’ve probably run out of the standard starter set of grief responses by now and have to run some weird glitchy mods that some guy in Milwaukee cooked up in his basement.”

Peter paused to take in that truly horrendous mixed metaphor. “Dude,” he said. “I fucking love you.” That had somehow been exactly what he needed to hear right then. “Seriously, though. Thanks. For—you know, for being there.”

Ned nodded, solemn. “That’s what I’m here for Pete. Guy in the chair. Or, bed—I guess I’m in a bed right now, so I’m your guy in the bed?”

“Ned,” said Peter, with all the gravity the sentence deserved, “please never introduce yourself to anybody as my ‘guy in the bed.’”

Ned snickered, and Peter did too, and it was a real laugh this time, no uncontrolled sobbing at all, but there was a horrible, horrible ache deep inside his lungs.

“This really sucks,” said Peter.

“It truly does,” Ned agreed. They sat in silence for a moment, then Ned asked, “Waffles? Mom said she was gonna take the day off and would make us whatever sugary monstrosity we wanted for breakfast.”

“Oh, man, I should have my last remaining family member get killed more often if it means I get to stay home from school and have Mrs. Leeds cater to my every whim.”

Ned sent him a slightly concerned look, but went along with the joke. “I dunno, dude, you’re probably gonna have to cook up some new relatives if you wanna keep that up.”

“Point,” acknowledged Peter.

* * *

Mrs. Leeds greeted them with waffles and then left the two boys alone for most of the day. Peter was glad for it. Normally, when Peter and Ned hung out here, she was at work—or more recently, at the hospital—and honestly, they’d mainly hung out at May’s—at Peter’s—place. They ate gummy waffles and watched Star Wars and put together LEGO models and watched Star Wars _while_ they were putting together LEGO models, and it was just like any normal weekend except for the throbbing pulse in Peter’s head going _May is gone, May is gone, May is gone May is gone May is gone Mayisgone Mayisgone MayisgoneMayisgone_.

Mrs. Leeds pulled him aside after lunch—chicken adobo over rice—and asked if they could talk. “Your social worker—Ms. Isaacs?—gave me some things to read over, and asked if I could get you to her office for an appointment at 4:00, and I think it’s probably best we have a bit of a conversation before then.”

“Oh,” said Peter, instantly deflated. “Yeah, of course. Yeah. Um, also, thank you, by the way. I mean, I know I already said it, but I really appreciate you letting me spend the night here, and taking the day off, and seriously, I can get myself to the appointment if you give me the address, I don’t want to be an imposition or anything.”

“Of course not! Of course, you’re not an imposition, Peter, sweetheart, no. That’s not—don’t you worry your head over it; it’s not an imposition. I just—um…” She trailed off, then rallied with too-bright cheer. “Do you think we should have this conversation with Ned? I don’t really know-” There were any number of things she could have ended that sentence with. _You. What to do. How to do this. Why I’m doing this. Why I was saddled with this_. “I don’t really know what’s appropriate,” she finally said.

“Um, I mean, if it’s okay, I’d really like Ned to be there? He’s my best friend, and so it all kinda affects him too. And I don’t really feel like relaying the whole thing to him.”

“Of course, of course.” Her smile was more nervous than reassuring, but Peter distantly appreciated the effort.

“So, Peter, honey,” said Mrs. Leeds, once they were all seated around the table. “You are a great kid. A fantastic kid. You’ve always been there for Ned, and I am so happy you two are friends. You are always welcome here, you hear me?”

Peter’s ears warmed, and he nodded, but he could hear the ‘but’ in her voice. Ned must have heard it too, because he reached under the table to grab Peter’s hand and his expression was much more somber than usual.

“But-” said Mrs. Leeds, and Peter braced himself for the blow. “This can’t be a permanent solution. It just can’t be. I did some reading, last night and this morning, and with everything that’s happening—me working so much and Angelo in the hospital, our recent separation, and the possibility of us moving—”

 _No need to sugarcoat it_ , Peter wanted to tell her. _I already know that your husband has a gambling problem and also renal failure, and that he tried to pay his medical bills with poker chips, but only ended up losing you your mortgage, so you’re probably going to get evicted soon, and you’re getting divorced to try and have some kind of financial stability, but also your husband is slowly dying in the hospital and you visit him every night, and also you’re working three jobs, Mrs. Leeds, and hiding one of them from Ned, who is pretending not to know about it, because he doesn’t know what to do about it—I know all that, Mrs. Leeds. Ned is my best friend. He tells me these things. Your lives really suck right now, and I’m so sorry for making them even harder by just showing up out of the blue with all my stupid fucking baggage and my habit of getting everyone close to me dead_. _On the bright side, you seem to be the closest thing I have to a parental figure right now, so you’ll probably be dead in a week or so and then you won’t have to worry about all that bullshit!_

Peter didn’t say any of that, and he blanched with guilt at the thoughts.

Mrs. Leeds misinterpreted the look on his face. “Peter, I’m so sorry. It just isn’t viable for us to foster, or adopt, or whatever right now. Even if we started the process, it’s almost guaranteed we wouldn’t be approved, just because of everything that’s going on, and I don’t think it would be fair to you to get your hopes up. So, you can stay here for the next few weeks, and obviously keep coming over for sleepovers, but in terms of a legal relationship—it’s just not possible. I’m so sorry.”

Peter stared at her, flabbergasted. “You were—you were thinking about fostering me?” His voice came out small and wondering. “Why would you do that? You didn’t have to do that. You don’t have to do that. I’m so sorry; I never meant to be a burden, or cause you all this stress, or think that you had to—wow, no. I am so sorry, you really didn’t even have to—” And then he was crying, and Ned was crying, and Mrs. Leeds was crying, and they all ended up hugging together on the floor and sobbing it out. It was one of the worst feelings Peter had ever had in his life, which was saying something, but he also felt keenly loved in a way that ripped his insides apart like a burning hunk of metal, or a bullet wound, or a stainless steel faucet handle.

* * *

Just after 2:00, there was a knock at the door. Ned opened it, with Peter right behind him, to reveal MJ standing in the hallway.

“‘Sup losers. I heard there might be some prime sketchbook material I might wanna catch down here.”

“MJ,” Peter breathed, so startled and so relieved at her continued existence. He pulled her in through the doorway into a tight hug, forgetting for a moment that they hadn’t really…done that, before.

“Wow, that bad, huh,” she patted his back awkwardly and then she was hugging him back for real.

Ned hovered right near them, vibrating with ecstatic energy at this emotional display.

MJ rolled her eyes, and gestured to him. “Bring it in, nerd.”

MJ ended up joining them in the Star Wars marathon, sitting on the couch with her sketchbook and one foot tucked under her. Peter sat on the floor at her feet, close enough to touch, and continued LEGO-ing with Ned. It was…nice, and so reminiscent of the TV dinners they’d been having with May these last few months that Peter thought he might break.

But he didn’t want to fall apart in front of Ned _yet again_ today, which would make it the—third time? No, fourth time; he’d arrived here in the early hours of the morning—he’d done that to his friend. So he shoved all breakdown and May and sad and guilt-related thoughts into one corner of his mind, and he shut that shit down. He was _Spiderman,_ and he was also Peter Parker, and both of them knew how to compartmentalize like a motherfucker. Came with the territory.

“So, not that I’m not super glad you’re here, but isn’t it Wednesday? Don’t you have, like, class and decathlon and stuff?”

MJ shrugged. “I skipped. All the cool kids are doing it. And because we go to a nerd school, by ‘all the cool kids’, I mean there is this one specific delinquent who is very much a dork and a loser, but may be setting a new trend.”

Peter smiled at her, and mockingly punched her leg that was dangling from the couch.

“Watch it, Spider-boy.” But the look on her face was definitely a small smile in return. “Besides,” she settled deeper into the couch, “decathlon practice was cancelled.”

“It was?” said Ned.

“Yeah, not much point if your three star shooters—not to mention your captain—aren’t going to turn up.”

“Wow, MJ, only two weeks into your captaincy and you’re already trying to ruin our chances at Nationals,” Peter joked. “Is it because academic decathlon is a manifestation of the ruling class’s obsession with a certain caliber of quantifiable knowledge perpetuated through an inherently unequal educational system that is then used as a status symbol and a stand-in for intelligence in order to enforce and normalize class boundaries as well as a Eurocentric, ‘correct’ way of thinking?”

“Obviously,” said MJ. “Also, you’re important. To me. Don’t make a big deal about it.”

Peter froze, and focused more intensely on his LEGOs.

* * *

Peter took the bus to Ms. Isaac’s office. Ned’s mom insisted on escorting him there, which meant Ned insisted on joining, and MJ, who claimed she was only tagging along because it would be weird for her to be in Ned’s apartment alone. All of which meant that there was a very weird and awkward series of introductions and all that before Peter finally managed to get the rest of them out of the office.

Ned’s mom went to work, and Ned and MJ waited for him in a cafe across the street. “I don’t need, like, constant babysitters,” Peter protested.

MJ just shrugged. “Ned does. And I refuse to be a single parent, Parker.”

Ned, of course, enthusiastically backed her up and Peter practically had to push them out the door.

Ms. Isaac raised an eyebrow at him. “Good friends,” she commented.

“They’re alright,” Peter grinned at her. He put on what he privately thought of his Spiderman-helping-civilians face, which was distinct from his Spiderman-dealing-with-criminals face, both of which in turn were different from any of his Peter Parker faces, even though you couldn’t see any of his faces under the mask.

This was just like evacuating people from a house fire: stay calm, cheerful, and collected; shield civilians from harm; deal with simple, concrete tasks, one at a time; minimize any possible damage; do not think about how your goggles have melted into your face and you’re in excruciating pain. He could do this. For May. “So, Ms. Isaacs,” he said, chipper, “what needs to get done?”

The first thing she did was let him know that he had a lawyer, apparently. She said he had the right to have her there for this discussion, but that she couldn’t be here right now and if he wanted her present, they would have to reschedule. Peter didn’t want to deal with another person right now; Ms. Isaacs seemed fine but he barely trusted her as it was.

They talked. And talked. And talked some more. There was just so much stuff that needed to be sorted out. He liked Ms. Isaacs though; she didn’t baby him. She had a list of things that needed to be dealt with, and she let him pick the order and told him for each one what the default decision would be if he didn’t want to deal with it, and then she let him decide. May’s will was apparently super simple, and basically said that everything should go to him. But that didn't actually help when it came to dealing with what that meant.

The rent for the apartment was paid through til the end of the month, so he had until then to move out. That was fine. It was just a place. Just the only home he could remember and the physical connection between him and Aunt May and Uncle Ben. Acceptable loss. Plus Peter definitely couldn’t afford rent, or live on his own there. Worse things happened to plenty of people; suck it up, Spiderman.

What would happen to all their things? Short term: Peter would pack suitcases of all the things he wanted on hand. Medium term: everything would go into a storage locker. Peter decided that once he grabbed all the things he wanted, the government could take care of packing everything and moving it there. Long term: Peter would have to go through it all, but it didn’t need to be any time soon.

The hospital bills and May’s credit card debt: the government could also deal with that. Ms. Isaacs said it would probably take a while, but the government lawyers would work with the banks, and the hospital, and the credit card people to cut some kind of solution. If there was any extra money, it would go to him, to be held by the state until he turned eighteen. “Not gonna lie, kid, don’t think there’ll be much, if anything. But the debts aren’t gonna follow you.”

What to do with May’s body? Default: whatever it said in the will. It didn’t say anything in the will, so the next default was burial in Hart’s Island, in the Bronx. There was a cemetery there, apparently, where they buried people whose bodies were never claimed by family or who couldn’t afford a funeral. Peter instantly recoiled at this option. May should be with Ben, and with Peter’s parents, who were all buried near Peter’s grandparents in a graveyard in Harlem, where Ben and Peter’s father had grown up. But then that involved logistics, and money, and honestly Peter couldn’t plan a funeral right now, but it wouldn’t be _right_ to just let strangers do it, so Peter was relieved when Ms. Isaacs—“call me Rhee, Peter, everyone does”—suggested cremation, and then he could bury the urn there when he was ready.

Then there were things like doctor’s appointments and making sure he was up-to-date on his vaccines. He managed to buy some time on the avoiding-getting-bloodwork-that-shows-I’m-Spiderman front. That could be a problem for another day. Insurance, he let the government handle.

School. The year had only just started. Ms. Isaacs had apparently already talked with Principal Morita, and Peter’s tuition was paid through until the end of the semester. Next semester was a problem for another day. He was excused for the next two weeks if he wanted to be, and his teachers would send schoolwork home with Ned. He didn’t have to do it, but he could if he wanted to. “I want to go back to school,” said Peter, surprised at how confident he was in that decision. “Not, like, tomorrow, but maybe Monday?”

Ms. Isaacs deferred to his decision. “You can always change your mind day-of if you’re not ready, just email me and your principal. Also, Monday’s probably not the best, considering it’s Labor Day. What are your thoughts on Tuesday?”

“Tuesday’s an okay day, I guess. Probably a better time to go back to school than when it’s empty for the holiday.”

“My thoughts as well.”

And finally, the elephant in the room. Where would Peter live?

“Do you have any other adults in your life you would like to contact about the possibility of fostering?”

Peter shook his head. “Nah. It’s just been me and May for a while now. And Ned and MJ, but they’re not adults. May’s…May was kind of all of our’s ‘adult’, you know?”

There was a quiet moment, and Peter could feel the high-pitched scream of the electric lights boring into his skull.

“I’m sorry, kid.”

“Yeah, well,” Peter laughed. “Shit happens, life sucks and all that. What are the options, what is the default?”

Ms. Isaacs gave him a highly skeptical look-over, but let him take the lead.”Options, broadly: foster parents or group home. The preferred default is foster parents, but that often isn’t possible immediately. Group homes are supposed to be temporary; fosters more long-term. There are also a bunch of fosters who could take you in temporarily, but it’s not ideal to have you bouncing around from house to house every few weeks. So, I guess the default in your case would be to try and find you a more permanent placement, but if we don’t get that in the next three weeks, you’d go from the Leeds’ place to a group home, and then we’d keep looking from there.”

“Okay. What’s um-how does that work? Finding me a foster…whatever?”

“From your end, not much. There might be some game nights, or taking you out to coffee or something in a public setting so that you can get to know potential fosters and they can get to know you, but most of the actual work of it will be my job.”

She sighed. “Not gonna lie to you, kid, teenage boys are not the easiest or the fastest to find permanent homes for. So you’re probably gonna be in the group home for at least a little bit. With your okay, I’d like to try and get you into a queer-affirming group home in Park Slope. I realize that that’s pretty far from Queens, but it’s a good place and the commute to Midtown is about the same, just from the other direction.”

Peter blinked. _Leave Queens?_ The thought was so preposterous it didn’t make any sense. He tried to see it reasonably. He couldn’t live in the apartment any more, he’d still have school, and he’d be closer to MJ, so basically the only things tying him to Queens still were Ned and Spiderman and Delmar’s.

“Can I still visit Ned?” he asked.

Ms. Isaacs nodded. “It might be shorter visits after school, because you will have a curfew, but we could probably work out sleepovers on the weekend and stuff.”

At _curfew_ , Peter’s heart sped up, because how could he be Spiderman with a curfew if he had to sneak all the way to Queens every night? He tried to swat away the thought as ridiculous. _You can be Spiderman in Brooklyn, dummy_. But despite trying to reassure himself, he didn’t actually believe that he could.

“Um,” said Peter, stalling for time to think, “I kind of have a job in Queens?”

Ms. Isaacs looked a little surprised at that. “You do?”

“Yeah,” said Peter. “There’s this deli, and I help with stocking stuff in the mornings, before school. 5:30 to 8:30 on school days, and 12:00-3:00 on the weekends.”

Ms. Isaacs blinked. “5:30 _am_?”

Peter laughed and rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, it’s a 24-hour place, but the breakfast rush starts about 6:00, so it’s nice for Mr. Delmar if I can stock stuff before then and man the register for a bit while he’s dealing with the food.”

“Yeah, but why would you willingly subject yourself to a _5:30am_ start?” Her voice was more teasing than genuinely curious.

Peter shrugged. “I have lots of homework and extracurriculars and stuff after class, and then I can hang out with Ned and MJ in the evenings, so it’s pretty much the only time I can take a shift, and I kinda need the money for…expenses.” Peter froze and tried to smile. He had almost just told her that he needed the money for his definitely illegal and not social-services sanctioned black-market HRT, from his favorite doctor who destroyed all of his lab testing and kept no records of him, which he definitely needed to continue while somehow also convincing the state that everything was above-board. _Keep it cool, Parker. Keep it cool. Keep it cool_.

Ms. Isaacs, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice his slip-up. She just looked tired. “I take it from the fact that there weren’t any blue papers in your school records that this job is off-the-books?”

“Any blue what?”

Ms. Isaacs snorted. “Yup, that’s what I thought. Working papers. All minors need one to work legally in the state of New York, and they’re issued by your school. Blue is for fourteen- to fifteen-year-olds. They also have certain requirements, like no working more than eighteen hours a week when school is in session, and only working in the hours from 7:00am to 7:00pm.”

“…Oh.” _Shit. He had definitely broken both of those rules. Had he just gotten Mr. Delmar in trouble? He didn’t mean to. Had he said which deli it was he worked for? Also, Mr. Delmar was paying him a bit less than minimum wage, and he was pretty sure Mr. Delmar was undocumented, so did this mean that if they investigated him, he’d get deported? Or arrested? Or arrested and deported? That was very not good. Shit, shit, shit_.

Ms. Isaacs just looked mildly amused. “Relax, kid. I’m not gonna report you or your boss or anything. I’ve got enough on my plate without trying to take down deli owners who give kids who need it a part-time job. But you’re probably gonna have to quit that one, okay? If you still wanna work, we can get you set up _legally_ somewhere closer to the school, or wherever you end up living. But you’re not gonna have to contribute to household expenses any more, so if you’d rather sleep in a bit…”

“Um,” Peter’s voice came out in a high-pitched squeak. “No. Nope, wanna keep working. Wanna keep doing that…work thing.” Eighteen hours a week at $15/hour, which was NYC’s minimum wage, was $270/week, or $38.57/day, so…$1157.14/month. He could still afford Dr. Reyez’s services. He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. He did not think about leaving Mr. Delmar alone and not being able to eat the best sandwich in the city for breakfast every morning.

“Great, okay. Anything else you wanna know before I try and get you assigned to that group home?”

 _I really don’t want to leave Queens_. “I guess not, just…there aren’t any others in Queens I could go to instead?”

Ms. Isaacs sighed. “There are plenty of group homes in Queens, and if you prefer, I could get you into one of those. Most of them are segregated by sex, and, unfortunately, due to the limits of our system, you would be living four or five to a room with a bunch of other teenage boys. I don’t mean to make any presumptions, but,”—she picked through her words very carefully—“teenage boys, especially teenage boys without stable home environments who have largely been raised to believe in a certain type of masculinity…might not necessarily be the best living situation for you, Peter. The one is Brooklyn is a new model, that we’re trying to get rolled out across the city, that is specifically for trans and queer youth, and might be a more comfortable fit.”

“Oh,” Peter flushed, and suddenly felt very foolish. He was Spiderman, and of course he could protect himself, but he wouldn’t be able to use any of his powers at the group home, and, even though he could deal with it, a house full of Flash Thompson-type macho posing where he had to sleep in the same room as those people would definitely not be great for his peace of mind. “Yeah. Brooklyn. That one, definitely.” He’d figure out the Spiderman thing later. Besides, it wasn’t gonna be permanent. He could do this.

“How long?” he asked her. “I mean, how long would I typically be living there before the foster stuff?”

She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I don’t know. I really don’t. Like I said, teenage boys generally take longer, but you’ve got a bunch of things going for you: you’re on the younger side of teen; you’re cute; you’re white; you have no disciplinary record; you’re super likable; you have great grades; you go to a fantastic school; and you come from a relatively stable home environment. The trans thing could cut either way: a lot of people are put off all the extra stuff you have to deal with, but you wouldn’t want to be with folks like that anyway. We’ve also had an influx, lately, of queer parents who specifically want to foster queer kids. So that’s something to consider. We could have a home for you even before you leave for the group home, or it could be months. It’s really hard to know, but I’ll keep you updated, yeah?”

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “That all makes sense.” He could do this. He could do this. Don’t think about May. Don’t break down. Focus on the task. “So, what’s next on the list?”

“Only one thing left for today, kid, and it’s an important one: therapy. We’re getting you some.”

“What? No, I don’t need…I mean, thank you, I appreciate your concern, but I really, really, really, really do not want a therapist, Ms. Isaacs.”

“Rhee,” she corrected absently. “Bad experience in the past?”

Peter shrugged. “Sure.” It was even true.

“We’ll find one that works better for you. Anything specific that you would prefer your therapist specialize in? Trauma, loss, anxiety, queer stuff, school pressure, something else?”

“Thanks, Ms. Isaacs, but that’s really not necessary. I’m fine, and I’ve got my friends-”

“Yeah, no, kid. This isn’t optional. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your too-cheery, task-oriented deflection bullshit. I’m only letting you get away with it because it’s making my job easier and God knows we all need our ways to deal, but that shit ain’t healthy.”

“Aren’t you supposed to, like, set an example for kids and not curse in front of a young, impressionable minor?” asked Peter.

“Deflection,” she said, pointing at him. “If you don’t give me therapist qualities, I’m just gonna pick one for you. I’ll do my best, but it’d be helpful if you gave me something to work with.”

Peter exhaled. “No group,” he said.

She nodded, and confirmed. “No group.”

Peter chewed his lip. He couldn’t talk about Spideman stuff with a therapist, obviously, and he didn’t particularly want to discuss any of his other stuff, but if he was gonna have to be stuck in a room with this person for however often and however long, it should at least be someone bearable. A lot of Peter’s past shrinks had been absolutely insufferable, condescending assholes. But how to weed those ones out?

“Can they be…” he hesitated, trying to think of how to phrase it, “someone who is not a straight, cis, white person?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do they need to meet all three of those categories, or just one?”

“Just one,” said Peter. “I just…I just want someone who _gets_ it, you know? Being outside of things.”

She nodded, face weary and sad. “Yeah, I know. And I’ll do my best. Unfortunately, the therapy profession is overwhelmingly straight and white, but-” She paused, then repeated, “I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks, Ms. Isaacs,” said Peter.

“It’s my job, kid.”

“Yeah, but…thanks anyway.”

She gave him a long, indecipherable look. “Thank me by calling me by name. It’s Rhee, kid. Not Ms. Isaacs.”

Peter felt a bit nauseous at the prospect of calling her Rhee. “Is it the Ms.?” he asked. “I could do Mx. instead, or something else.”

“You’re sweet, kiddo, but it’s not the Ms.” She sighed and considered him. "I have…reasons you might understand to dislike being called by my last name."

 _Oh_. Probably trauma, parent-related things, then. Peter didn't mean to be rude, or hurt her, but he just couldn't do it. “I just”—he bounced his leg and tapped his hands in his lap—“I don’t really—Ben and May are-were the only adults that I ever…yeah,” he finished lamely. He stared resolutely at her desk, refusing to see he pity on her face.

“Ah,” she said, voice dry. “ _Ms_. Rhee, then? And my first name is technically Harietta, so you wouldn’t be calling me that.”

He looked up. She met his gaze, stoic and calm.

“Yeah, I guess I could do that.” He offered her a grin, not nearly as confident as the ones he’d been slinging around, but a grin nonetheless. “Thanks, Ms. Rhee.”


	5. I-4. Spider-Man Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes back to being Spider-Man. Ned and MJ don't approve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to have reasonable-sized chapters instead of 6,000-word monstrosities, so here is this little interlude scene. The next few chapters are gonna be angsty, but also still have a lot of hope and support and love in them. The whump is gonna start for real around chapter 10 and then just keep going. On the plus side, I have the next three chapters done, so those'll be uploaded soon.
> 
> TW in this chapter for anxiety, sensory overload, unhealthy coping mechanisms, suicidal ideation (no plans)
> 
> Also, I've switched from Spiderman to Spider-Man and will go back and change earlier chapters if I feel like it, but am too lazy to do so now. So, you'll just have to live with inconsistent spelling. Sorry ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

May died on Tuesday night. September 1. Wednesday, Peter met with Ms. Rhee to discuss his future. Thursday, Ned and MJ both skipped school and the three of them hung around doing nothing all day. Friday, Peter went home with Mrs. Leeds, Ned, and MJ (who had once more skipped school for him), and packed all the things that were most important to him into two suitcases and a duffel bag. Clothes, pictures, his birth certificate and social security card, one of May’s sweaters, one of Ben’s sweatshirts. The blanket they kept on the couch. His pillow. A few books. His earplugs, which he used when things were too loud. And his noise-cancelling headphones, which he used when that wasn’t enough. Medication. All of his Spider-Man stuff. $500 in emergency cash that May kept rolled up in her bedpost. He moved on autopilot, robotically. Nothing was real. Everything was underwater, and far away.

Saturday everything was too close. Too loud, too bright, too much. All of his nerves screamed with pain. He spent the entire day curled up in a ball under Ned’s bed with his earplugs in and headphones on, goggles under a blindfold so the cloth wouldn’t rub against his eyes, with all of his soft things around him. He hugged May’s sweater, and the scent of her was so overwhelmingly strong, and he cried, and he tried to cry silently, but even the ragged little noises coming out of his own body _hurt_ and each tear _burned_ as it trickled down his skin. It didn’t stop hurting until he passed out.

Sunday, Peter was restless, anxious. He needed to do something, but he didn’t know what. There had to be something that he could _do_ , somewhere he could go to fix this awful static inside him. He needed—something. He needed—there was something missing, something he was forgetting, and it was all his fault, all his fault, oh God, all his fault. His brain danced donuts around him, skittering away whenever thoughts got too close to _May, May, May_. There had to be something he should be doing, and he wasn’t doing it, and why were his thoughts so fucking loud but he couldn’t hear them, why was he here, why was he here and May _wasn’t._ It was wrong, and there was so much fucking static, his brain was going to fizzle and explode, cherry coke and mentos, and he was on _fire_ , running hot, hot, hot. Sometimes someone would try to talk to him, but he couldn’t turn their noise into words, couldn’t turn their shapes into faces. And his brain was so fucking _loud_. He wanted to bash his head into the wall just to make it quiet, shatter the skull like a cracked egg and let the bees fly out of his brain. But he couldn’t— _why couldn’t he?_ —so he didn’t— _it’ll kill you, dumbass_ —oh, yeah— _would that be so bad? it would stop the screeching buzz once and for all_ —but he couldn’t. So he didn’t, and instead he grabbed his backpack and jumped out the window.

He vaguely remembered stripping his clothes off in a back alley and shoving his limbs into his homemade spidersuit. He yanked the mask over his face, and—

Quiet. The boy breathed, and his brain was quiet, and he was Spider-Man. Peter Parker and all his problems disappeared.

Spider-Man patrolled for ten hours on Sunday night. He returned to Ned Leed’s window at 2:00am, and met the open and anxious eyes of his friend before dropping wordlessly into bed. New York was safe; that was all that mattered.

On Monday—Labor Day—Spider-Man patrolled for eighteen hours. And New York stayed safe.

On Tuesday, Peter Parker returned to school. He existed, physically, and he smiled and chattered, and talked to his teachers about makeup work. On Tuesday, Spider-Man patrolled for twelve hours, 3:30pm to 3:30am. And New York stayed safe.

On Wednesday, Peter Parker went to class, and he existed. He went to Academic Decathlon practice, and he was there. Flash said something, but he didn’t care. On Wednesday, Spider-Man patrolled for twelve hours, from 5:30pm to 5:30am. And New York stayed safe.

On Thursday, Peter Parker went to school. The second the last bell rang, he tore towards his locker and grabbed his bag with the suit, changed it out for his backpack, and raced to an alley behind the school to change. He unzipped his bag, and—

The suit wasn’t there.

Peter stopped breathing. He went through the bag again, but the only thing in it was his spare change of normal clothes—he’d learned the lesson to have _those_ on hand the hard way. No spidersuit. He tore through it, breath coming too fast, the beginnings of a panic attack coming upon him.

“Yo, loser. Chill.”

_MJ?_

The incongruity of hearing her voice snapped Peter into the present. Yup, that was MJ, here in the alleyway with him, and Ned.

“Guys, my suit is missing.” Peter’s voice was clogged his panic and dread. Thoughts flashed through his mind: his identity leaked, his name splattered across the headlines, being taken in for experimentation by Hydra, or SHIELD, or the Avengers, his blood being used to hurt people, to create supersoldiers, to-

“Hey, Spider-Boy, your identity is fine. We’ve got your suit. Again, chill.”

Peter frowned. “You’ve got my…? You _stole_ my suit?!”

MJ rolled her eyes. “Technically, _Ned_ stole your suit. I just hid it. And no, Ned doesn’t know where it is, so you can’t use your weird guilt-trippy doe eyes on him.”

“Why…?” Peter gaped at his two best friends, betrayed. “I need that suit! People are in danger. What the kind of joke are you playing? This isn’t a game, MJ. This is life or death.”

“Peter…” Ned’s voice was soft. “We need to talk.”

“What?” Peter laughed in disbelief. “I need to go. I’ve wasted enough time as it is. Just give me my suit back, and we can deal with this later.”

MJ looked him dead in the eyes. “No talk, no suit.”

“Ugh, _fine_.” Peter was buzzing with energy. “I guess I’ll have to grab a balaklava from a thrift store or something, because my two idiot friends are keeping me from being out there and _preventing people from dying_.” He moved to brush past them.

“Peter,” said Ned, “I know you can overpower us, like, super easily, but we’re really worried about you and how much time you’ve been spending in the suit. You didn’t even come home last night! Do you have an any idea how worried I was?!” Ned’s eyes were bright with tears.

“Look, Ned, I’m really sorry, but I need to be out there. Every minute I’m not, there could be someone dying or getting hurt, and I could have stopped it, but I’m not there because I’m in this freaking alley with you having this stupid discussion!”

“You can’t just be Spider-Man all the time! You’ve gotta be Peter Parker too, and you’ve gotta take care of yourself. _You_ are going to be the one getting hurt or dying out there if you keep this up!Even Spider-Man needs to sleep, dude.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Peter muttered.

“Yeah, no, I know for a fact that that’s not one of your powers,” said MJ.

“If you don’t sleep, you’re gonna get hurt,” said Ned. “Let’s be honest, it’s you, so you’ve probably already gotten hurt.”

There was no way Peter could respond to that without revealing that he did indeed have three broken ribs and a sprained wrist from when he’d gotten dizzy and slipped off a roof last night, so he settled for glaring.

“So, I guess this is, like, an intervention. A spider-vention.”

“Seriously?”

“Dude, shut up. I’m being serious. I know that you need to be Spider-Man, but you can’t do that if you’re working yourself to death. Look, Spider-Man takes care of the little guy, right? Keeps them safe. Well, Peter Parker’s one of the little guys, and you need to take care of him too.”

 _He doesn’t deserve it_. The thought comes automatically, and Peter does nothing to brush it away. He let May die, he let Ben die, he’s let so many people die on his watch. He doesn’t deserve rest or comfort. He doesn’t say anything, though, not wanting to see the look on Ned’s face if he voiced that thought aloud.

Something about his thoughts must have slipped through, though, because Ned’s face scrunched in determination and sorrow. “Look, if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me, okay? Because it really fucking hurts seeing my best friend treat himself so badly.”

Peter grimaced at the guilt. “Ned, I-”

“No, shut up and listen. You know what I thought last night, when you didn’t come home? I thought, thank God my mom’s so stressed and my dad’s so sick, otherwise there’s no way I could cover for Peter. Because you know I’m there for you, bro, no matter what. But that’s a pretty sucky thought to have, and then I spent half an hour throwing up my guts in the bathroom because I felt so fucking guilty about it. And then I felt even sicker when I realized that maybe I wouldn’t have to cover for you anymore, because you’d done something stupid and reckless and gotten yourself killed, or hurt, or- or- I can’t lose you too, Peter. I can’t. Please.” Ned was ugly-crying by the end of his speech, broken sobs and snot dripping down his face.

“Oh my God, Ned, I’m so sorry-”

Ned sniffled and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Peter. I want you to not do it again. And get some sleep. Like, right now.”

With that, something gave inside Peter, and he could barely hold himself upright anymore. He nodded. “Okay. Okay.” He leaned into Ned, and then the two of them were hugging and crying. “I really am sorry, though.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Alright, let’s get you two losers home.” MJ rejoined the conversation.

“Um, thanks guys,” said Peter. “Both of you. For—you know.”

“Yeah, whatever,” said MJ. “I only did it to get some good crisisbook material.”

“Sure,” said Peter. “Could I get my suit back now, then?”

“No.”

* * *

MJ gave him back his suit on Saturday, after a planning discussion on ‘The New Spider-Man Protocols’, a.k.a. ‘Operation Peter is Not Allowed to Cut His Friends Out of His Life.’ Things were not magically better after that, but now he chatted to Ned and MJ through Ned’s bluetooth headset while he was Spider-Manning; and when he got lost in his darker thought spirals during class, one of them would always be there to bump into his side and ground him back into reality; and they made sure he had something sweet to eat or drink whenever he ran off to have a panic attack or sensory overload time in the bathroom.

One day, MJ dragged him into the principal’s office during their shared free period.

“Um, MJ, not that I don’t trust you, but…what are we doing here?” Peter asked.

She shut him up with a glare, and turned to the secretary. “We have an appointment.”

“We do?”

MJ continued to not answer his questions, but, sure enough, Principal Morita called them into his office and closed the door soon after that.

“Jim,” said MJ, like they were two adults in an office building.

Principal Morita sighed. “Miss Jones,” he said, obviously picking his battles. “And Mr. Parker. What exactly is this meeting about?” He addressed the question to Peter.

Peter fidgeted in his chair. “I don’t know, Principal Morita, sir? I just—MJ kind of dragged me here—” He cut himself off under MJ’s withering stare.

Satisfied that Peter wouldn’t talk, MJ turned back to the Principal, her gaze intent and focused. “Peter is one of the best students at Midtown Tech. He’s only a sophomore, but he’s entirely in upper-level courses and he’s consistently at the top of those classes while working a part-time job. He’s a star member of the academic decathlon, and he’s going to end up a great college, probably MIT or Caltech. He’s a genius. You know it, I know it, his teachers know it. Peter, if given the opportunity, will become one of Midtown’s most prominent alumni. He will invent something amazing, that makes a real impact on the world, and work for one of the big biotechs, or Stark Industries, or Microsoft, or Google. He is also”—she turned to look at Peter, who had gone bright red and speechless—“very bad at selling himself or asking for any help. So I’m doing it for him.”

She took a breath. “Peter is an asset to this school. As you know, he is now in the foster system, and he doesn’t have the money for the school fees after this semester. You should give him a full scholarship. If you don’t, he won’t be able to stay here and you will miss out on one of the best students you ever had, and all of the prestige that will come from having him as an alumni. It’s also good publicity and good for your school rankings to have a certain percentage of kids from disadvantaged backgrounds, which includes kids in foster care.”

Peter gaped at her. “MJ—that’s not—I’m not—ohmygod you can’t just—” A strangled sound escaped his lips. “Oh my God, Principal Morita, that’s, wow, I had no idea, I swear—”

“Breathe, Parker.” MJ clapped him on the back.

And that was how Peter got a full scholarship to Midtown Tech for the next two and half years.

Peter watched, stunned, as MJ and Principal Morita went back and forth on the details.

“The scholarship would of course be contingent on you maintaining your grades,” Principal Morita explained, “I realize that you are going through a rough time at the moment, but we cannot relax our standards for one student. You would need to keep all of your grades in the A-range, but given your current GPA, I don’t see that being a problem. You would also need to stay out of disciplinary trouble—no more than two detentions a term—and not do anything that would reflect badly upon the school—no breaking any laws or anything like that. Sound fair?”

Peter squawked something that could probably pass for assent.

“Very well. That’s settled then. Mr. Parker, would it be quite all right if I reached out to your social worker to discuss the logistics and paperwork?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure,” said Peter.

“Wonderful. If that’s all you two wanted to discuss…?”

“Yup,” said MJ. “Come on, nerd.” She manhandled a dazed Peter out the door.

“MJ,” he breathed, when he could form words again, “how did you-? What just happened? Oh my God, why would you even-?”

MJ just rolled her eyes. “Ned would be mopey and insufferable if you switched schools, and I don’t want to deal with that. I don’t actually care, or anything.”

Peter just beamed at her, feeling light in a way he hadn’t in a long time. It wasn’t until later that he realized that was the first time he’d truly smiled since May died. He cried in the shower that night, but it was a good cry, and he only woke up twice from his guilt-ridden dreams.


	6. I-5. The Group Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter moves into a group home, and Spider-Man bonds with his new roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw in this one for drug-use/overdose (referenced, not on-screen)
> 
> Also please lmk for any chapter if there should be trigger or content warnings that I haven't included! I am making my best efforts to mark most potential triggers and/or have a general content notice at the beginning of each chapter.

Life settled into a sort of rhythm, not so unfamiliar. School, Spider-Man, AcaDec, hang out with Ned and MJ, try not to wake Ned with his nightmares. There was one thing he had to deal with, though: Ms. Rhee kept hounding him about his medical records for his transition, and trying to set up an appointment to discuss his treatment going forward. She was beginning to get suspicious. Thankfully, she had her hands full with a bunch of other cases, and didn’t have too much time to check in on him.

It was Ned who came up with the solution to this problem. Feeling extremely guilty, Spider-Man broke into Dr. Reyez’s office and hooked Ned up to her system. His friend managed to forge four years worth of medical records for him, and they were even all true. He printed out paper copies to give to Ms. Rhee and then made sure that there was nothing in Dr. Reyez’s system that would make her suspicious. It was nerve-wracking, and Peter really didn’t want to get Dr. Reyez in trouble, or break the law, but it was either this or reveal his secret identity, so he did it. Besides, if all went well, no one would ever even know he’d done it, right?

He moved into the group home towards the end of September. It was…less bad than he thought it would be. Kinda surreal, still. Like going to a sleepaway camp must be? Peter wasn’t sure; they’d never had the money for him to go. But it didn’t feel permanent. Just a few weeks, and then he’d be back to May’s. Except he wouldn’t.

There were twelve kids there, not counting Peter. He was lucky thirteen. He was one of the youngest, except Raine, who was twelve, and Jackson, who was almost fifteen. The rest were somewhere between sixteen and twenty. Most were still minors. Everyone was queer. It was weird. They went around the table at dinner that first night and did names and pronouns as they passed around the mac n’ cheese. Peter took less than he was hungry for, using his neighbor (Andromeda, pastel blue hair, she/her/hers) as a guide for how much a normal teenager should eat. There were adults there too, who were in charge, but if it hadn’t been for their bright green T-shirts, Peter wouldn’t have been able to tell who was a ward of the state and who _was_ the state. The grown-ups were all so young, just out of college probably. It was weird.

A week into it he still didn’t know everybody’s name. The adults—half of them volunteers—just kind of cycled in and out. There were some actual adults, but for the most part, it was kids in their twenties. A lot of the kids also cycled in and out. Some, he learned, were only there during the week. Peter didn’t really get how it was supposed to work, and he didn’t care enough to devote any brainpower to the problem.

No one was outright mean to him, but Peter had never found it easy to make friends, and he found it harder now when everything was fuzzy and temporary and his brain didn’t want to do feelings. Plus he wasn’t eating enough. There was just barely enough food for thirteen kids and three adults, no extra for kids with spider mutations. He’d need to get a new job soon; he was running out of money for extra meals on his way back and forth from school. He couldn’t really make himself care, though. He felt disconnected, like a ghost. Ghosts didn’t need to eat.

Worse, he was in a room with two other kids and they did room checks every few hours at night. Made sleeping hard, but that could also just be Peter’s own nightmares. And his roommates’ nightmares. And his general insomnia. And the fact that he had too much energy. He needed to be out on the streets, needed to be Spider-Manning. But he had two roommates and constant check-ins, and he could only be Spider-Man from when school let out at 3:00 until he had to be at the home for “family dinner” at 6:00. Peter hated “family dinner.” It wasn’t family and it wasn’t even enough to really be dinner, not for him. He’d do it, though. _This is only temporary. Just gotta make it through_.

Peter missed Spider-Man. Patrol was still the only time he felt really connected to anything. It was like that thin layer of spandex was a second skin that allowed him to actually feel. He took to wearing his suit all the time, under his clothes, under his PJs, just to give himself some sense of reality. He hadn’t quite figured out a workable washing schedule, but that was a distant concern for some other Spider-Man. _Suck it up, Spider-Man. You’re fine_. _Plenty of people have it way worse. This isn’t even objectively bad._ But the bees crawled back under his skin and wouldn’t let him rest.

That was why he was awake, staring wordlessly at the ceiling on a Saturday night, when he heard someone crying outside. He didn’t know who. Peter’d been put in with the babies, but Raine got to go home on the weekends for visits with their father, who was fresh out of rehab and putting in a real effort to get his kid. Peter wasn’t jealous, because that would be stupid and pointless. But tonight it was just Jackson and Peter stuck in the baby room. Peter was a bit glad for a break from Raine. The kid was twelve, and a middle-schooler, and constantly trying to get into his things and talk to him and follow him around, and it was all just too much.

The crying was almost completely silent, muffled. If Peter hadn’t already been awake—and if he hadn’t had enhanced hearing—he never would’ve heard it. But was, and he did, and he did.

Peter sent a glance to Jackson. He was asleep, Peter thought. There was another half-hour or so before someone else was due for check-in rounds, and they weren’t always diligent about those. So he very carefully and quietly shed his PJs, pulled on his mask, removed the mosquito screen, and crawled out the window.

It wasn’t hard to find the source of the crying. One street over, tucked into some apartment building’s basement stairwell was the curled up form of a kid. Peter hopped up on the railing separating the stairwell from the street. “Hey,” he said, softly.

The kid gasped and looked up, flattening themself against the wall. Their eyes widened. “Spider-Man?” they whispered.

Spider-Man almost gave an identical gasp. _Raine?_ Thankfully he managed not to give away that he knew this kid, that he was roommates with them. “Hey, kid,” he said instead. “Mind if I sit with you?”

Raine sniffled and rubbed their nose. “Okay.”

Peter dropped down the half-story to the basement entrance and sat next to Raine with his back against the wall. “Not bad as far as curling-up-to-cry spaces go,” he said. “I like to go up high, but it’s easier for me with the _thwip-thwip_ and all.” He mimed his webshooters as demonstration. “But this is cozy. I like it. Would it be okay if I used it sometimes, if I need it?”

Raine looked at him like he was crazy. “I don’t, like, own this building or anything. And what do you need crying spaces for? You’re _Spider-Man_.”

Peter shrugged. “I know all the best spots in Queens for a good, private sob, but I’m just learning Brooklyn, really. I’m, um, expanding my brand. Thought I’d give the inferior borough a chance to get some of the Spidey action.”

Raine gasped in outrage. “You take it back!”

Peter grinned. “Never. I’ll give you this though, Brooklyn Kid: it’s better than Manhattan.”

“Well, duh,” said Raine. “ _Anywhere_ ’s better than Manhattan.”

“You have a point, kid. I’ve heard that Los Angeles is pretty bad, just all over, but I’ve never been.”

“Me neither. I’ve never left the city, actually.”

“Aw, sweet,” said Peter. “Me neither. High-five, city bud!”

Raine grinned and gave him a high-five. “What are you doing here, Spider-Man?”

“Honestly?” Peter tapped his thumb against his palm. “I was looking for someplace I could curl up and just feel bad without worrying anybody, and then I saw you here and thought you might have some pointers.”

Raine gave him a pointed look. “Why do _you_ need somewhere to feel bad? You’re _Spider-Man_.”

“You’ve said that, kid.” Peter paused. “Spider-Mans have bad times too. It’s um…it hasn’t been great for me, lately.” He didn’t know if this was the right move, but there was something about wearing the mask that made it actually possible for him to speak.

“Me too,” said Raine. They leaned their head against his chest and cuddled into him.

Peter stiffened, unsure how to react. Hesitantly, he wrapped one arm around them and patted their shoulder. This wasn’t creepy, right?

Raine didn’t seem to notice or care about his awkwardness. They just sat there for a while, the two of them in silence, before Raine rolled their head up to look into his goggles. Their eyes narrowed, looking for something. “You cool, Spidey?”

“Uhh…yes?” he said. “I mean, I’m not a fucking narc. But if you’re in danger or something, I’m gonna do my best to help so, you know, you don’t get hurt.”

Raine nodded, solemn. “I’m not in danger,” they said. “I’m in, like, the system, or whatever.” They sighed. “And it’s _fine_. It’s not like the horror stories where they beat you or don’t give you enough food or assault you or anything. But…it’s hard, you know?” Their voice cracked a bit at the end.

Peter’s chest tightened. _More than you could ever know, kid_. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

“And, like, I’m one of the lucky ones. Because my dad still wants me, and he’s really trying to get custody, even though he didn’t even know I _existed_ until like a year ago when my mom got arrested, and he’s been really cool about me being a mess or whatever, and he gets my pronouns right about a third of the time because he _is_ trying. But…he doesn’t really know how to be a dad, and he doesn’t know me, because of course he doesn’t, and he’s got his own problems, and he’s been struggling with, like, opiates and stuff since this doctor got him and my mom hooked back like, years ago, and he’s just really out of it tonight, and it was supposed to be _our_ night, but I get it that it’s really hard, I just—” They choked back a sob.

“And, like, I know the drill. I checked his vitals, and it’s not an overdose, and I tucked him in, and I made sure there weren’t any more drugs he could access in the house. And I’ve been basically taking care of myself for years now, so it’s not like I’m helpless or anything, and I’m in a stupid group home during the week anyway, and I really don’t want to report him because this was the week that his brother died, so it’s probably just a bad time, and I really don’t want to get him in trouble or fuck up the relationship that we have, and it’s better being with him than in the home, because he’s not perfect, but he’s _family_ , you know?” They collected themself a bit. “And I’m the youngest in the home because it’s like, for at-risk queer kids or whatever, and most kids aren’t out yet at my age, and everybody there just treats me like a _baby_ who doesn’t get anything, and I get that they’re all teenagers and in high school and it’s really not cool to hang around a middle-schooler, but at least my dad kinda treats me like a _person,_ you know?” Peter winced under his mask and felt a sharp stab of guilt.

Thankfully, Raine didn’t notice. “And…I don’t know. It’s just hard.”

At some point during their rant, Peter had transitioned from awkwardly patting their shoulder to rubbing circles on their back. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s rough, buddy.” He cringed as soon as the words came out.

Raine pulled back their head. “Did you just quote Avatar at me?”

“It’s a good show!” Peter squawked out in his defense. “And I default to memes when I don’t know what to say. It’s a defense mechanism. And…that is, like, an objectively rough situation…buddy?” He winced, but he tried.

Raine giggled, and it was such a childish sound in contrast to the previous conversation that Peter startled a bit. “It’s Raine,” they said. “My name, I mean. Is Raine. Um, they/them.”

Peter nodded. “Spider-Man,” he said, pointing to himself. “He/him.”

Raine considered him. “You’re cool, Spidey. I like you.”

“I like you too, Raine,” Peter declared, pushing down the red-hot guilt at how he’d been treating the kid like an annoying pest all week. “Can I walk you home? Or, like, wherever you’re going?”

Raine chewed their lip. “It’s kinda a long walk back to my dad’s place.”

“That’s okay,” said Peter. “I could swing you home? Swinging is super fast. Or I could take you to the group home.”

Raine’s face paled at the idea. “That is so cool, Spidey, but I am super scared of heights. I think I’d throw up if you swung me home. Um,”—they scuffed their foot on the ground—“the group home is closer, and I guess I just automatically walked towards it, but I really don’t wanna go back there and explain everything, so I’m fine. I can just walk home. It’s not a bad part of town, so it’s not, like, dangerous or anything.”

“That’s cool, kid. I could use a walk.” He really could. Despite the guilt and the general suckiness of everything, this was the first time he’d felt settled in a long time. Like he was Spider-Man, but he was still also Peter, and those two things didn’t feel diametrically opposed. “I could drop you off a block away or something, if you don’t want me to know where you live.”

“Nah, that’s cool,” said Raine. “You sure you’re okay walking, though? It’s really not a big deal, and I don’t wanna inconvenience you, or-”

“Raine,” said Peter. “There is literally nothing I’d like to more in the world right now than walk with you.”

“Oh,” said Raine. “Um, okay. Thanks.”

It was a forty minute walk to Raine’s dad’s place, and Peter checked the place over once he got there. It was exactly like Raine said. Their dad was sleeping, but not OD’d, and the apartment seemed decently clean and safe. Raine had their own room, with pictures of them and their dadand cringe-worthy anime pencil sketches all over the walls, and there was a thing of Cap’n Crunch on the counter and a bunch of frozen meals in the freezer. Raine offered him some of both, and Peter accepted after a token protest. He was always hungry, and Raine told him that their dad was cool with Raine eating however much they wanted if they were hungry.

Peter agonized over the choice not to report anything all the way back to the group home, a much faster trip via web. Raine was already in the system, and had a social worker and everything, and Peter didn’t want to mess that up for them or get them in trouble. And they weren’t in active _danger_. The only thing reporting would do would probably mess up their only family relationship left and make their life even harder and lonelier. He’d keep an eye out, he decided, and if things got worse, he’d do something.

He was still caught up in his thoughts when he got back to the home and froze, spidey-senses on high alert. The house was lit up and crawling with half-awake people. There was a police officer at the door, talking to the “adult” in charge. Peter tried to remember her name—Jana, maybe? He’d only met her once. And…oh, shit. That was Ms. Rhee. Peter’s heart hammered in his chest, and he tried to stay calm as he dialed into their conversation from across the block.

“Let’s give it until tomorrow,” the cop was saying. “He’s a troubled teenager. If he doesn’t show up at school, we can start a missing person’s report, but it’s pretty clear that the kid snuck out. Kids do it all the time, especially kids like that.”

Ms. Rhee was not happy. “Kids like _what_ , officer?” she snapped. “Emotionally vulnerable and grieving? He is a _child_ , who is out alone on the streets at _night_ , without a phone, or a wallet, or any way of getting help. He could be in danger. We should start a search party now.”

“Look, Rhee, I hear you, but it’s really not an efficient use of police resources. If he’s not back by dinner tomorrow, we’ll start a search, but until then, I really don’t see anything to be concerned about.”

“By dinner tomorrow the kid could be dead!” Ms. Rhee hissed.

Jana had just been watching the back-and-forth between them. Now she raised her hand, hesitantly, like a child in class. “Um, maybe we could try and call his friends, see if they know where he is? If we know he’s safe for the night, we can get all the other kids back to bed?”

“Not a bad idea, pipsqueak,” said Rhee. “Okay. I’ll call his friend’s mom. I’ve got her number in my files.” She stomped towards her beat up old car.

 _Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit_. It hadn’t even considered to Peter that there might be a search party. With dogs or something. That could track him straight to Raine’s apartment since he’d walked there the whole way. And that would not only blow up his secret identity, but probably all of Raine’s shit too, and he’d screw the kid over for life. _Okay, think, Spider-Man, think_.

He circled around to a rooftop where he could see his window. The light was on, and Jackson was up and about, pacing. Peter didn’t have any stashes of clothes around here. He had no idea where he could get any non-Spider-Man clothes this time of night. Plus he hadn’t brought any money. He couldn’t see any way to sneak into the house _and_ not give away his secret identity. He could create a distraction? Or swing away, find clothes…somehow, and go back through the front door and face the music.

“She’s not picking up,” said Ms. Rhee, annoyed. “Probably because it’s 3:30 in the goddamn morning.” She clucked her tongue. “Imma try the friend; think I’ve got his number here too.”

Peter’s heart beat frantically in his chest. _Come on Ned, cover for me, please. I know I’m not following the New Spider-Man Protocols because I don’t have my phone, but in my defense I really didn’t think I was gonna be gone this long_. Ned picked up after three rings. “Hello?” His voice was thick with sleep.

Peter held his breath as Ms. Rhee asked if Peter was with him.

“Peter?” said Ned, tinny through the phone, but still easily picked up with Peter’s enhanced hearing. “Um, yeah. He showed up like an hour ago, said he was feeling really down and passed out. Sorry I didn’t call you; I kinda forgot that was a whole thing, and I don’t really wanna wake him up because he’s been having a lot of trouble sleeping, and..” He went on. It was kind of scary how good Ned was at covering for Peter when he’d obviously just been woken up from a deep sleep and had no idea what was going on. Peter winced when he remembered why his best friend was so good at this.

 _Ned,_ thought Peter, _I love you and I owe you so so so so much_.

“Fine,” said Ms. Rhee. “I’ll call off the hounds. Let him know when he wakes up that we’re gonna have a _conversation_ about this, though.” Peter shuddered at the snap in her voice, but snuck down the other side of the building and started webbing his way to Ned’s. The least he could do was make his friend’s lie a truth.


	7. I-6. Family Court (Strike 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oddly enough, the foster care system isn't very conducive to doing Spider-Man activities. Peter is the recipient of several lectures.

Rhee had a pretty good scolding teenagers speech, if she said so herself. Four years in the business, and she was finally getting the hang of it. How to strike the right balance of angry disciplinarian and caring social worker. Or at least, she thought she had it.

Then the universe threw Peter Parker at her.

Oh, he was properly shamed after that first speech, contrite as could be. Said he understood why he couldn’t go sneaking off at all hours without telling anyone. Apologized profusely, stammering himself into a frankly adorable blush. So maybe she let him off easy that first time, on account of his grief.

And maybe she wasn’t quite as mad as she should have been the second time he went missing for the night. That time, at least, he reappeared a few hours after he’d left, unharmed and apologetic.

The third time, he actually deigned to inform one of the counselors at the group home that he was leaving. It was 11:00pm, well after curfew, and that child very calmly informed the staff on duty that he was going out for a walk, that he didn’t want to worry them because Ms. Rhee had told him how much of a bother it would be, and he’d be back before the end of the night. Then he’d just waltzed out the door, cool as you please. Or, more accurately, ducked under the counselor-on-duty’s arms in what Rhee had been assured was a stunning feat of acrobatics. Then he popped back up at 3:00am, and had the gall to wonder why anybody was upset. That one, she did get proper mad at him for.

As mad as she got, as mad as any of the group home staff got, as desperate and pleading, as reasoned and logical, as many punishments as the boy racked up, he was unfailingly polite, cheerful, and contrite. He just…didn’t stay at home for the night if he didn’t feel like it. He’d deal with the consequences without fail and without complaint—extra chores, extra therapy, lectures—but he completely ignored his ever-tightening curfew unless someone was there to physically drag him home. And sometimes even then he gave them the slip. The child never raised his voice, nor his hand, to anyone. He also never offered any explanations as to where he was going. He was just “out for a walk.” The kid was sweet as sugar and twice as bad.

Rhee was sure there were times they weren’t catching him, just on account of the amount of times they _did_ catch him. After the sixth time in three weeks, the group home brought him up before a judge in family court. It coincided nicely with Peter's first permanency hearing, so the court decided to bundle them up into one big shebang. At least she didn’t have to schlep her ass into Manhattan twice. They’d decided to have all his cases there instead of in Queens or Brooklyn because the kid could end up in any borough and his school was in Manhattan. Greater stability for Peter. Lucky duck got to have all of his court cases in one place.

It was the first time Peter got to meet his lawyer. Her name was Marie, and she was a fresh-faced lawyer straight out of CUNY, twenty-four if she was a day, overwhelmed and overworked. Rhee liked her, mainly because she was shorter even than Rhee, which was really saying something because Rhee was only 5’3. But where Rhee was a solid mass of muscle and fat, Marie was skinnier even than Peter. The first time Rhee’d been in court with Marie, the judge had thought the tiny lawyer was the foster child. A few months into the job now, most of the judges knew her by sight. Pity. Took some of the fun out of going to court, and there wasn’t much fun there to begin with.

Marie flew into the waiting area in a flurry of paperwork and energy about two minutes before their hearing was set to begin.

“Peter, right?” She waited for a nod, then, “Marie Takahashi, I’m your ACS-appointed lawyer. It’s so lovely to meet you. The court’s operating on a bit of a backlog, so it’ll probably be half an hour or so before we actually go in, okay?”

“ACS?” Peter picked out the acronym. “That’s a new one.”

Marie nodded. “Administration for Children’s Services. It’s a separate agency to make sure that I’m here to represent _you_ , and no one else. So, for example, if Rhee here thinks that something should happen to you and you don’t feel like it’s in your best interest, I’m here to represent _your_ interests, and Rhee can get a lawyer from OCFS to represent her point of view.”

“Not that I’m planning on trying to put you anywhere against your will, kid,” said Rhee, raising one dry eyebrow at Marie. _Throw Rhee under the bus for a hypothetical, would she?_

Marie just shrugged, unapologetic.

“There’s so many letters,” said Peter, more to himself than either of them. He focused back on Marie. “Is there a list somewhere, Ms. Takahashi? Of, like, all the letters and what they mean and what they do? Because so far I’ve got ACS, OCFS, DSS, CPS, LDSS, NCMEC, um…VAs, which is different from _the_ VA. And it’s all just, a lot?”

Marie snorted. “Tell me about it. There are some PDFs online that are somewhat helpful, but I’ll try to draw you up a cheat sheet. We really should have one of those.”

They went over the process of what would actually happen in the room, who would be there, what was expected. Marie made no attempts at judgment or justification: she was all about damage control.

“You’re great on paper, Pete. I’m sure you’re great in person, too, but paper is what matters right now. No disciplinary record, straight As, great school, recent trauma, no violence or attempts to harm others. With your ok, the plan is we’ll go in there and tell the judge that you’ve just been having trouble adjusting to foster care, and there’s no need to go through the whole rigamarole of a PINS hearing, and he’ll just let you go on your merry way.”

“PINS hearing?” asked Peter, trepidation written plain across his face.

Marie nodded. “Add that acronym to your list: Person in Need of Supervision. Basically it’s a proceeding for kids who are ‘out of control’ and need more structure in their life. If that happens, it is serious: you could be placed in a group home or a juvenile detention facility, or basically get the teenage-version of probation.”

Peter paled. “Oh,” he said.

Marie brushed away some imaginary concerns with her hand. “Don’t worry, Pete. I’m pretty sure it’s not gonna happen. You’re already in a group home and this is hardly juvie-worthy behavior, so the judge will almost certainly grant our request and just let you off with a lecture.” She leaned in closer to Peter to stage whisper, “Judge Reinhart loves to lecture. It brings him joy to watch children squirm.”

Peter gave her a shaky smile. “I’m pretty good at listening to lectures,” he said. “I’ve had a lot of practice. Ms. Rhee can vouch for me.” He turned to Rhee and his shaky smile morphed into a shit-eating grin. The kid had obviously grown much too comfortable with her in their now almost-daily meetings.

“Hey, kid?” said Rhee. “That attitude, that one right there, that is _exactly_ why you’re here today.”

Peter frowned. “Thought I was here today because all foster kids have to do a permanency hearing when they first enter the system. The attitude is just a bonus.”

Marie’s mouth twitched into a barely-suppressed smile.

Rhee included both of these _literal children_ (because sure, Rhee was only three years older than Marie, but the lawyer was still basically a child) in her responding death glare.

* * *

Marie’s assessment of the judge turned out to be correct. Peter got the lecture of his life, and also court-mandated curfews and therapy, with a warning that he could be put into the juvenile justice system if he continued to act out.

Peter did a very convincing doe-eyed apology, but Rhee was wise to his shit now and saw right through it.

Afterwards, Rhee took them both out for hot dogs and they sat on a little strip of grass across the street from the courthouse.

“So,” said Rhee, “now that you’ve convinced the judge you’re on the straight and narrow, let’s have an actual discussion about how you’re not gonna get in any more trouble.”

“Trouble? Me? Ms. Rhee, you wound me.” Peter laughed around his fourth hotdog. “I meant every word of what I told the judge. No more sneaking out for me. Straight-A boy scout from now on, promise.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before, Parker. Straight A, I believe. The rest of it?” She shook her head.

“This is character assassination,” Peter informed his lawyer, mournfully.

“Stop trying to charm your way out of this discussion, Parker.” So yeah, she called the kid by his last name when he was in trouble. It wasn’t a fond nickname. Not at all. Solely professional. And exasperated.

“Sorry, Ms. Rhee.”

“And enough apologizing when we all know you don’t mean it.”

“I do mean it!”

“Do you mean it enough to not sneak out again?”

“Well…” He paused. “Sneaking out is normal teenage behavior?” he tried.

“Nope, not like this it isn’t. Try again.”

“I’m a special kid, who should get special sneaking out privileges?”

“Colder.” Rhee sighed, and relented. “You shouldn’t be sneaking out period, Peter. Under any circumstances. Ever. If you're uncomfortable in a home, call me.” She grimaced, because she knew the reprimand would go unheeded. “But,” she continued. “It is obvious that the group home system is not working for you. I’d like to move you into living with a foster family. I haven’t found a suitable permanent placement for you yet, but there are several temporary options that could work for the time being.”

Peter frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?"

Rhee huffed. "I just think it might be worth a shot for you to have a more flexible living environment for the time being."

"So, like, moving around every few weeks? To different people?”

“Yup,” said Rhee. “Bingo.”

“I thought that wasn’t ‘developmentally healthy.’” His tone was suspicious more than anything.

“Prison is even less developmentally healthy, and that’s where you’re going if you keep this shit up.”

“Watch your language, Ms. Rhee.” He gasped in mock horror. “There's an impressionable child present.”

“You watch your fucking attitude, kid.”

He thought about it. “Would they really send me to prison?” he asked, voice quieter. “Or is that just a scare tactic? Because that seems like…well, really like a huge overreaction.” He pouted. “I’m not hurting anyone.”

“They would,” said Marie, unexpectedly backing Rhee up. “I’ve seen it before. If you weren’t such a model citizen, they might have done it today. It would be 'for your own safety,' trying to drill some self-preservation into your head. Which,” she frowned, “you definitely do need a much better sense of self-preservation, but trust me when I say that a facility is not the best place to get help.”

Peter looked like he wanted to argue that, but he managed to hold his tongue. Maybe he was learning self-preservation already. “So how would leaving the home change anything? It’s still all the same stupid rules and system and stuff.”

He directed the question to Rhee, but it was Marie who answered.

“Hey, Rhee,” she said. “Get yourself out of earshot. I need to have a conversation with my client covered by attorney-client privilege.”

“That’s okay,” said Peter. “She can stay.” The panicked look on his face said he didn’t want her leave him alone with Marie. Rhee tried not to feel smug.

Marie frowned. “It’s not privileged if there’s a third party present. She could stay in sight, but not hearing range?”

“Um…”

Rhee scootched herself over about a foot. “I have real bad hearing,” she said, straight-faced. “I’m out of earshot now.”

Peter giggled.

Marie hesitated, sending Rhee an assessing look. But she turned and addressed Peter in a low tone. “You should not do anything illegal, which now includes sneaking out or leaving the custody of any guardians without their permission, understand? Judge’s order basically made it illegal for you to do that. But…” She paused again. “As opposed to group homes, most foster parents don’t do room checks at night, and they can give you appropriate consequences for sneaking out. Consequences that _aren’t_ reporting you to a judge and potentially getting you sent to juvie. Assuming, of course, that you are not doing anything illegal and you’re staying _safe_ and _unhurt_ and are not gone for _prolonged periods of time_. Because those would all need to be reported to the court.”

Peter stared at her, slack-jawed, and then a sly smile crossed his face. “So what you’re saying, Ms. Takahashi, is don’t get caught, and if I do, make sure it’s nothing major.”

Marie had a hell of a poker face. “I said no such thing. I said you should _not_ do anything illegal. I was very explicit about it. So, shall we continue discussing living arrangements with your caseworker?”

After that, the conversation went much easier. When they were done sorting out logistics, Rhee gave Peter some money to go get his _eighth_ round of hot dogs.

She watched him chat with the hot dog vendor and leaned back on her elbows on the grass. “You out here implicitly condoning misbehavior by a minor, Marie? _Illegal_ misbehavior, at that.” She tutted and shook her head. “So irresponsible. For shame.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have hallucinated some kind of conversation while you were ‘out of earshot.’”

“Sure I did, kid counsel.”

Marie made a face at her, but it quickly faded into a more somber expression. “I’ve got fifteen minutes before I’m due back in court. Do you want to talk with him about the sentencing hearing now, or should we schedule an appointment?”

Rhee sighed, instantly brought back down. “No time like the present.”

So the two of them had the unenviable task of informing the boy that his aunt’s killer had pled guilty to second-degree murder. There would be a sentencing hearing in late November to figure out how long she would be in jail for.

“It’ll be somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five years,” Marie explained, voice gentle. “At the discretion of the judge. If you’d like, you can make a victim impact statement at the hearing, talk about May, what she was like, and the judge will take it into consideration. Some people find that cathartic, others don't want to dig up the memories. It’s really up to you if you want to do it or not. You don’t even have to go to the hearing if you don’t want to.”

Over the course of this conversation, Peter had shut down. “I don’t know,” he said, voice flat.

“Okay,” said Marie. “That’s fine. We’ll leave the option open, but you don’t have to decide right away. You can even change your mind day-of.”

“Okay,” said Peter, and that was that.


	8. I-7. Search & Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stark Industries announces a competition for high school students. Peter turns fifteen. Iron Man fights aliens. Spider-Man gets stuck between a rock and a hard place.
> 
> i.e., Peter does school, and also evacuates a war zone. Because that’s his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this is a monstrosity of a chapter. I make no apologies. 
> 
> TW for Part 1 (first two sections, before the double line break): verbal bullying/transphobic language (i know this is not a new observation, but wow, “penis parker” gets a helluva lot worse when peter’s trans, doesn’t it?); child neglect (summarized)
> 
> TW for Part 2 (last two sections, after the double line break): mass casualties (focus on civilian deaths in alien attack—explicit & potentially graphic descriptions of serious injuries, including burns, head trauma, crushing, broken legs) and death (including the death of an infant)

Peter was on foster home number three when Ms. Warren made the announcement. Foster home three, the Davises, was the best of the homes he’d been in. He felt like they actually cared about him. But they had five other foster kids, all of them with disabilities that meant that other people wouldn’t take them, and they didn’t really have the capacity for Peter. They only took him in on an emergency basis and let him stay for a week while Ms. Rhee tried to sort something else out.

Fourth-period physics was almost over, and Peter had lunch next followed by a free period. He was thinking about maybe Spider-Manning during his break. The Davises didn’t keep him on such a tight leash, and he could actually patrol a bit after dinner as long as he was back by 10:30pm. It helped mitigate the vibrating energy crawling through his entire body screaming that he needed to be _out there_. So maybe he’d actually stay and have lunch with Ned and MJ.

“All right, everyone,” said Ms. Warren. “I know you’re all anxious to get to lunch, but I have a very exciting announcement that I think many of you may be interested in.”

There were “very exciting” announcements every week or so, so no one actually reacted to Ms. Warren’s little speech.

Ms. Warren ignored the unenthusiastic air of the classroom. “Stark Industries has just announced a new competition specifically for high schoolers.”

Now _that_ was enough to get people’s attention. Stark Industries was _the_ place to work if you were in STEM. The best minds in the world, generous funding, amazing perks and benefits, plus you might even get to work with the Avengers. Or, _for_ the Avengers, more accurately. But still!Unlike Oscorp or Cybertek or even The Rand Corporation, SI didn’t offer any programs or internships for high school students. At a nerd school like Midtown, getting an in at SI was probably more exciting than getting an in at MIT. And that was really saying something.

Ms. Warren hushed the excited whispers with a calm smile. “This is a new initiative rolled out by Stark Industries CEO Pepper Potts as part of an ongoing effort to recruit and inspire the best and the brightest minds of a new generation.”

Ned elbowed Peter. “Do you think it has something to do with that Harley Keener kid?” he whispered.

Peter blinked. He hadn’t considered it, but…it kinda made sense. Harley Keener had been all over the news a few months ago, especially at Midtown. A random kid their age adopted by Tony Stark? And then being outed as the only person besides Tony Stark himself who was authorized to work on the Iron Man suit? Midtown had cycled through jealousy and awe and increasingly wild conspiracy theories in turn, not helped at all by the fact that there was almost no information out there at all about the Keener kid. “I dunno, maybe,” Peter whispered back. “I guess Tony Stark is on a high-schoolers kick.” Which wasn’t weird or creepy or anything.

Ms. Warren was still speaking. “The competition is calling for the submission of original inventions. These can be on paper, or a prototype, or still in progress. Along with the invention, or schematics for how the invention would work, interested students are also asked to submit a short piece of writing indicating how the invention could be used in the world and ideas as to how it could be manufactured and produced effectively. The top twenty entries will receive a $20,000 yearly scholarship to a college of their choice, as well as a guaranteed summer internship in the SI research and development department once you’re enrolled in college.”

The room erupted in buzzing whispers. A competition run by Stark Industries was one thing. An actual real life internship at the R&D department? Peter felt dizzy just thinking about it.

“Quiet down,” called Ms. Warren. “I’m not done yet. Or do I have to pull the clapping trick on you like you’re a bunch of Kindergarteners?”

When they’d settled down a bit, Ms. Warren continued. “The top five entries will receive the same offer, as well as a full scholarship that includes tuition and living expenses at the college of their choice. In addition-”

She paused for dramatic effect. The class was hanging on to her every word.

“A certain amount of entries—it could be a hundred, it could be zero—but there is a possibility that any of the entries could be picked to be added to the Stark Industries R&D roster. If an invention is selected for that, the student who submitted it will be given the opportunity to work with the scientists and engineers at SI to refine their design into a viable product. The Stark Industries legal team will help prepare the patent, handle all manufacturing and marketing, and the student inventor will receive somewhere between 5 percent and 50 percent of all patent revenue depending on how complete the design was before it was refined with the help of SI.”

The class was dead silent.

Then everyone started asking questions all at once, and even the lunch bell wasn’t enough to stop people from mobbing Ms. Warren. Everyone took the thick packet of papers that explained the contest rules and submission requirements in more detail as they filed out the door. Even MJ took one.

“You’re planning on entering the competition?” Peter asked, because that seemed like a very un-MJ-like thing to do.

“No,” said MJ. “I want to read the legal terms. Seems fishy, like a way to steal ideas and potential profit from the unsuspecting youth.”

Peter nodded. “Let me know what you find. I don’t want to wake up five years from now and realize that I’ve accidentally sold my soul to the devil or something.”

MJ nodded. “More likely you’d’ve sold it to Tony Stark. Same difference, really.”

Peter made a pained noise at the slander of his hero. “He’s an Avenger, MJ.”

“He’s a war profiteer.”

“Not any more. He stopped selling weapons.”

“No, he still is,” MJ disagreed. “Iron Man and all the other Avengers tech are definitely weapons that Tony Stark is profiteering off of. And you know, using to fight wars. Kill people. Level cities. All that good stuff.”

“But they’re the good guys,” Peter whined.

MJ looked at him. “Yeah,” she acknowledged. “Doesn’t mean they can’t also be evil, or self-interested. Look at that whole thing with Captain America.”

“What actually _happened_ with Captain America?”

“Unclear. But since he’s an international fugitive and all…at least some of the ‘good guys’ were wrong. Probably all of them, tbh. To get that powerful, you kinda have to be morally corrupt somehow.”

“I mean…” Peter hesitated.

MJ rolled her eyes. “Not talking about superpowers, bug-boy.”

“Hey Penis!” Peter was spared from having to untangle his feelings around that by Flash Thompson helpfully inserting himself into their conversation.

Peter sighed. “What do you want, Flash?” He really didn’t have the energy to deal with this. Now that his initial excitement over the competition was wearing off, he just wanted to curl up somewhere safe and sleep.

“Just wanted to let you know that you can’t use your affirmative-action pity party to give yourself a leg up in the Stark competition. See?” He held up the packet, pointing to something, “all entries are anonymous and they don’t collect any biographical data. It’s gonna be so funny when you don’t even get past the first round and everyone realizes that your so-called ‘genius’ is actually just all the teachers feeling sorry for the super-orphaned freak of nature.”

Peter’s blood ran cold. Most of that was pretty standard Flash, but… “Super-orphaned?” he squeaked out. Did Flash know about Spider-Man?

“Yeah.” Flash laughed. “Because you’ve got, like, special powers at getting your parents killed. Or kicking you out. What number are you on know, like seven?”

“Eugene Frances Thompson.” MJ’s voice was like ice, and Flash paled. “I get that your parents don’t love you and you take out that deep pain in your soul by bringing down other people, but that was way over the line.”

Flash sputtered. MJ just made a shooing motion at him. “Go away and use your daddy’s money to try and be a contender for the competition. We all know that Peter will way outperform you using dumpster scraps, but you can at least pretend at some form of superiority because your toys are shiny.”

Flash _fled_.

Peter stared at MJ. He couldn’t form any words, or even any thoughts, because Flash was _right_ , it wasn’t like Peter hadn’t already known that, but also MJ had been fucking savage.

She glared at him. “What? You look like an idiot, Parker, stop staring and close your mouth.”

Peter obeyed with a click of his jaw. “…Frances?” he finally managed.

MJ smirked. “It was on his report card. He got a B- in Calc.”

* * *

Peter celebrated his fifteenth birthday by getting getting trapped beneath a pile of rubble and almost killing a man. November 11th. It was not a good day. 

He was on foster home number five. Or maybe it was home number six, if you counted the week he’d bounced back to the Davises (home number three) after being kicked out of home number four because he was “possessed by the Devil.” Even Ms. Rhee had been thrown by that one, but in the end she’d just sighed and tried to find him a new placement. Thankfully, Ms. Rhee and the rest of his “care team” dismissed foster mom number four’s claims of demonic possession as a combination of sleep deprivation, nightmares, and superstition.

Peter really hadn’t meant to scare the woman by sleeping on the ceiling, hadn’t even realized that he was doing it at all until he was woken up by hysteric screaming at 4:00am, and he felt a little bit bad about going along with the sleep-deprivation scenario when he _had_ legitimately been pulling a move straight out of _The Exorcist_. It felt a bit too much like gaslighting, but how was he supposed to say she wasn’t crazy without outing himself as Spider-Man? After that, he tied one wrist to the bed before he went to sleep each night so that he wouldn’t end up somewhere that gravity wouldn’t allow a normal person to sleep. He’d gotten lucky once. He probably wouldn’t again.

Home five (six? five-point-five?) was the worst one so far. They were called the Fosters. Was that irony? Peter wasn’t sure; he was always getting irony and other literary devices confused, even when MJ tried to break it down for him. There were four other kids at the Fosters’ house, all younger than him. It was pretty clear the Fosters were only in it for that sweet OCFS allowance. There wasn’t enough food, or clothes for the littles, or school supplies, or anything, and they kept a lock on the fridge. On the plus side, they really didn’t give a shit what Peter did as long as he stayed under the radar. He could Spider-Man as much as he wanted.

Peter had gotten a job. Well, he’d gotten two jobs: bussing tables on the weekend and tutoring chem after school. So he could afford to buy extra food. And crayons. Construction paper. He got bulk batches of plain beans and rice, and cooked them up after the Fosters went to sleep every night. He shared with the rest of the kids, of course. They didn’t have super-metabolisms, but they were still hungry. He wasn’t MJ when it came to cooking, but he was better than May. He didn’t use any spices because Lily and Madison, who were four and six respectively, couldn’t handle anything spicy. They’d eat it, but it made their tummies hurt and once Lily got diarrhea, which was not fun to clean up. Plus Peter was worried that if the kitchen smelled too much, it might wake the Fosters up or make them suspicious, even through their alcohol-induced haze. So he just used salt and pepper and they had plain rice and beans or sometimes pasta with cheese. It was almost okay.

So Peter sucked it up and made sure the kids had enough to eat and didn’t tell Ms. Rhee because he was getting really sick of moving and honestly this wasn’t the worst. He had everything he needed, he made sure all the littles were taken care of, and he didn’t have anyone breathing down his neck and threatening to send him to jail. It was the best living situation he’d been in since May died, except for staying with Ned. And that wasn’t an option any more.

The Fosters didn’t give a shit about his birthday, but Ms. Rhee offered to do something for the day if he wanted. Peter didn’t want. He did make plans to spend the night at Ned’s, and informed the Fosters he was going. Mr. Foster grunted something that might have been acknowledgment, so Peter left Elliot—who, at ten, was the oldest besides Peter—in charge of extra Tupperware filled with food that Peter had made in advance and went over to Ned’s new place.

Ned and his mom had been evicted from their old apartment, and they were currently living at the top of a six story walk-up in Jamaica. There were boxes everywhere, but nothing had really been unpacked. It didn’t feel like home the way Ned’s old place had, but it was still better than staying with strangers. Or at the Fosters’. Or at MJ’s. Peter had only been there once, when he’d been patrolling in Brooklyn and needed a place to stitch himself up after he got stabbed. MJ’s mom was a hoarder, and it…wasn’t good at her house. It would probably have been more hygienic to stitch himself up in an alleyway behind a dumpster.

His birthday started out a good. MJ also came over to Ned’s after school, and the three of them made cookies before Peter went on patrol. No candles, but they did do ice cream. No happy birthday song. They sat on a queen-sized mattress on the floor and came up with fake metaphors that their English teacher, Ms. Able, might make up. MJ—who was a huge literature nerd—was furious that they had spent an entire class period talking about how the ball of twine that Boo Radley left in the tree in To Kill a Mockingbird symbolized the passage of time because…twine could be used to measure things…and time was a thing that was measured. “That’s not how symbolism works! And it’s not even a prominent thing in the story!” The evening started out good.

* * *

* * *

Patrol was quiet that night, except for Ned and MJ chattering in his ear. Mostly Ned. Entirely Ned. MJ was reading, or drawing, or something, but she was technically in the room and Ned had them on speaker. Ned’s mom was working the night shift, so they didn’t have to worry about being overheard.

It was nice to be back in Queens. Peter carried groceries, helped a lost little girl find her mother, and stopped one attempted mugging.

Peter spent a few hours just wandering around the rooftops, talking to Ned and enjoying the freedom.

“What do you think you’re gonna do for the Stark contest?” Ned asked. Ned himself had already decided on creating a program for an insulin pump that would automatically monitor your insulin levels and wouldn’t require manual blood-sugar checks. Depending on how much time he had, he was also planning on coming up with a model to 3-D print the device itself. For that, though, he needed it to be distinct enough from the copyrighted models that were already on the market, which was the real challenge.

“I dunno,” said Peter. “I mean, I kinda want to build something off my web fluid. When I got stabbed the other day, I used it kind of like a bandage, and that actually worked really well? I healed way faster than normal, even for me. I think you could do a bunch of cool stuff that could maybe replace stitches, or be good for trauma in the field, especially if I could get the webbing to be more permanent and maybe infused with anti-bacterials? But then also, I don’t want it to be too close to Spider-Man stuff, because if someone at Stark Industries connects me to Spider-Man, then Iron Man might come and arrest me and throw me in the Raft for breaking the Accords? And I’m kinda on a pretty good ‘avoiding prison’ streak right now.”

“Yeah, dude, that is a problem. Maybe if it wasn’t in web form it’d be harder to make the connection? Like, you could have all the same materials, but instead of web fluid inside a canister, you make, like, solid bandages out of it or something?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Peter. “I’d definitely also wanna tweak the chemical comp-” His spidey-sense _screamed_. Peter ducked, looked around for the danger, but there was nothing, just-

The sky exploded. Or maybe it wasn’t the sky. _Something_ exploded, and the sky was electric pink.

Peter was blasted back, straight off the roof. The air was pushed out of his lungs, and he fell—he was falling, and there was nothing there to catch him. He desperately twisted in midair and shot a web at the nearest building. It caught, and jerked Peter in the opposite direction. His shoulders screamed at him as he suddenly changed course and something _popped_. He skidded to a stop on the ground, harsh asphalt scraping through his suit and peeling the skin off his side.

For a moment, all Peter could do was breathe. _Oh God, everything hurt_. His ears were ringing, but he couldn’t hear anything. He forced himself up to his knees, then fell straight back down, gasping in pain as his dislocated shoulder gave way.

He retched into his mask. He still couldn’t hear beyond the high whine surrounding him, and the world was too bright. Too bright and the wrong color. Why was everything shaded in neon pink?

 _Okay. Come on, Spider-Man. Come on. You can do this_. He thought he was speaking out loud, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. He panted on the ground like a beached fish. Slowly, he pushed himself up again using only his left hand. His right arm hung useless at his side. He looked around. Things were on fire; there were people running everywhere. The fire was bright pink. _Huh_. Was he hallucinating? Or in shock? …Oh right, shock. That was a thing. That was probably it.

One person wasn’t running. She was trying to lift a burning piece of rubble that was twice as big as she was. It didn’t budge. She looked around in panic. It looked like she might be screaming. She moved, and suddenly Peter could see an arm, a small arm sticking out from underneath the slab she was trying to lift.

 _Shit. A kid. That’s your cue, Spider-Man_. Peter swallowed back bile and forced himself up into a sitting position. He’d need both his arms for this. Okay. This was going to hurt. He braced his uninjured arm against the ground, left hand on his dislocated shoulder, and let gravity do its work. He screamed—or at least he thought he did—as his shoulder popped back in, but he was already up, limping towards the woman.

He’d definitely broken a few ribs in the blast, and he was all scraped up, but he thought he was otherwise whole. No big gashes. He leant up against the rubble—a large piece of wall, he could see now—and pushed _up_.

The woman gaped at him, then grabbed the kid, pulled him out. He has conscious, Peter could see, but there were messy shards of bone poking out of his leg. Peter webbed him up the best he could and sent the woman away from the blast radius, kid in her arms.

“Thank you.” She was sobbing. “Thank you thank you thank you.” Peter could even sort of hear her.

“Go!” He pushed her, gently, to get her going.

“Peter? Peter, can you hear me? Ohmygod, are you okay? Spider-Man? Come in?”

“Ned,” Peter gasped.

“Oh thank God you’re alive. What’s going on?”

“There was some kind of explosion—” Peter gasped out. “I think I’m okay. Just lost my hearing for a bit.” There was another blast, a few blocks away this time, and Peter could see a bright pink beam cut into the sky. “There’s some kind of attack. Bright pink light beam explosion thing? I’m gonna go check it out.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Peter, you don’t sound great…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter brushed it off. “I’m sure. I’m fine. Just a little out of it. But I’m back now. Everything’s fine, and I gotta stop that pink blast thing before it goes off again.”

He limped towards the action. He didn’t think he was quite up to web-slinging on his no-longer-dislocated shoulder yet.

“Peter, I’m following this on Twitter, and it looks like the Iron Man is there. So he’s probably got it handled. I think this is bigger than your usual friendly neighborhood Spider-Man stuff. You should probably get out before you get really hurt. Or, like, Iron Man tries to arrest you.”

Peter didn’t respond to Ned, because he was too busy staring at Iron Man, who was staring right back at him.

“Hi, Mr. Iron Ma—I mean Mr. Star—Dr.—Mr. Dr. Iron Man Stark, sir.” _Shit. Great opening, Parker._ “Please don’t arrest me,” Peter tried to regroup. “I can help.”

“Oh my god, are you talking to the real, literal actual Iron Man?” Ned was geeking out in his ear.

“Holy shit, the Spider-Man is a Spider-Child,” said the real, literal actual Iron Man.

“You know who I am?” Peter gazed up at the hero in awe. “I mean,” he cleared his throat, tried to make his voice deeper. “I am not a child. I am an adult man, thank you very much.”

“Oh my God, Iron Man knows who you are. _Tony-fucking-Stark_ knows about Spider-Man. That is so cool!”

“Okay, Adult-Man,” said _Tony-fucking-Stark_. “If you say so. Just for my clarification, _why_ would I be arresting you?”

Peter felt his eyes go wide under his goggles. “Because of the Accords, Mr. Iron Man, sir? I haven’t signed them?” Wow, his voice went really high. _Why did he say that out loud? Now Iron Man was definitely going to arrest him._

But Iron Man made no move to do that. “‘Mr. Iron Man, sir.’ Are you for real, kid? Don’t answer that. Yeah, pulling cats down from trees isn’t really something you need Accords-level clearance for, Underoos.” Peter could _hear_ the eye-roll. “Listen, you’ve got enhanced strength, yeah? Do me a favor and start clearing the buildings of any civilians. Get them out of the line of fire. I’d do it, but—”

There was another blast of pink energy behind him, and a corresponding boom and crash.

“You want my help?” This was the best birthday present ever. _Wait_. “Underoos?”

Iron Man was already blasting off. “Yeah, kid, you’re basically wearing long underwear!” he called. “Civilians. Out of the line of fire. Then get out yourself. Don’t go trying to play hero, Spider-Kid. This is big-league stuff, got it?”

Peter nodded, then winced at the way it hurt his aching neck and head. “Yes, Mr. Iron Man, Dr. Stark, sir! You can count on me!”

He didn’t think he imagined Tony Stark snorting in amusement as he flew away towards the action.

“Oh my God, Iron Man just made you part of his team. Are you, like, an Avenger now?”

“Peter’s not an Avenger, Ned.” MJ sounded severely unimpressed by literal, actual Iron Man giving Peter a job. “You okay to do this, loser? You sounded pretty rattled, earlier.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, voice cracking. “Yeah, yeah. I got this. Iron Man’s trusting me. I got this.”

* * *

Peter, it turned out, was pretty good at evacuating civilians. His enhanced hearing helped him find people who were trapped, and then he could web to places that were otherwise unreachable. Super strength didn’t hurt either.

The actual fight only lasted about twenty minutes. Then Iron Man and War Machine (Iron Patriot?) blasted off with a limp, twenty-foot pink metallic slug-thing—maybe an alien? or a robot? an alien robot?—held between them, and the fight was over. Peter _swore_ that Iron Man nodded at him as he flew away.

But just because the fighting was over didn’t mean that everyone was in the clear. There were about five blocks that had been pretty torn up, and that pink fire was still burning all over the place. There was rubble everywhere, and the rescue crews were having trouble navigating the torn-up streets.

So Peter stayed and he kept evacuating people. He asked Ned to be quiet so that he could listen for people better. And there were _so many_ people who needed to be evacuated. People who were trapped, people who were injured, people who were dead.

Peter turned off the part of his brain that processed things, and moved on pure mechanical instinct. Locate person, extract person, web up serious wounds, deposit person at the edge of the destruction zone where there were ambulances cycling in an out.

Two hours passed, then three, then four. His phone died, but Ned and MJ knew it was happening, so he didn’t need to worry about them worrying. As it got later and later, the only people who were left were either very injured or dead. Those who couldn’t get themselves out. Peter ran out of web fluid. That made it harder to get places, but he kept going. He tried to comfort the people who were conscious. He tried not to look at the faces of the ones that were dead. He looked at them anyway, and he remembered every single one.

There was an old woman, who showed no signs of injury herself, but who had been lying on a bed next to a crushed ventilator. A man whose face wasn’t really recognizable as a face anymore because of how charred it was. A middle-aged woman who was still breathing, eyes open and unseeing, when Peter fished her out of the rubble, but who wasn’t breathing when he set her down for the ambulances.

The worst was the mother and the baby. She was curled up over a shattered crib, ceiling fallen down on top of her. Peter removed the ceiling piece by piece until he could pull her out. The back of her head was caved in, and she was covered in bruises and burns. It wasn’t until he lifted up her body that he realized there was a baby underneath her. He didn’t have any visible injuries, but his face and his hands were blue. Peter swallowed, and shifted his grip so that he could carry them both at the same time. It didn’t seem right to separate them.

Sometime well after midnight, Peter found someone alive and unhurt. Well, relatively unhurt. A man in his mid-30s, pinned under a slab of concrete in the basement of what used to be a restaurant. Peter hoisted the concrete off him and pulled the man up onto street level.

“Hey, man,” Peter said. “You think you could walk, if I’m supporting you? I’m getting a bit tired carrying people.”

The man agreed, dazed, and Peter got him safely to the ambulance zone. Then he turned, robotically, and went back into the fray.

Three unconscious people later, one of the rescue workers jogged over to him. “Hey, Spidey,” he said, “water, and a granola bar. Drink.” He thrust the water bottle and granola bar at Peter’s stomach, and Peter grabbed them reflexively. He stared at the worker.

“You’re not allergic to nuts, are you?” asked the man.

Peter shook his head.

“Good. You’re doing great work, but you need sustenance to keep going. Um, I’ll turn around so I can’t see under your mask if you wanna roll it up.” He did just that.

Peter just stared ahead.

“I don’t hear that water bottle opening, Spidey. Drink.”

Peter followed the order, still staring…somewhere.

“Great. Now open the granola bar and eat it.”

Peter did that.

“And drink the rest of the water.”

Peter obeyed.

“All right. I’m gonna turn back around now, if you want to put your mask back on.”

Peter’s numb fingers followed the command.

“You with me, Spidey?” When Peter didn’t answer, he asked, “Can I turn around and look at you now?”

“…Yeah.” Peter started coughing as soon as the word left his throat, hacking up some awful black…something.

“Smoke inhalation,” said the rescue worker, pointing to the gross black stain on Peter’s gloves. “You should go to the ambulances, get that checked out, rest.” He clapped his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You’ve done a lot, Spidey. We’ve got it from here.”

Peter shook his head. “I can help,” he forced out. Wow, his voice was rough. “I couldn’t…if there are people who are still here, and I could help…I couldn’t…I promised Iron Man that I’d help get the civilians out. He’s counting on me.”

“Hey, Spidey?” said the rescue worker. “If you don’t go get some rest soon, _you’re_ gonna be one of the people who needs rescuing. And that’s just gonna take away our resources to help someone else, understand? Come on, I’ll walk you to the ambulances.”

“I can help,” Peter insisted.

“’Course you can, Spidey,” said the rescue worker. “Right now, the best way for you to help is by not keeling over in the middle of all this. Come on. I’m Jason, by the way.”

“Hi Jason,” said Peter automatically.

They picked their way through the ruined streets, Peter in Jason’s footsteps, passing firefighters and EMTs and other rescue workers, many of whom stopped and waved as they passed. Peter couldn’t find the energy to respond.

They were two blocks from the ambulances when Peter’s spidey-sense went haywire. He moved on pure instinct, curling his body around Jason as the ground collapsed below them. He tried to shoot out webs, do something, but he was all out of web fluid, and there was nothing he could do but fall. They hit the ground and Peter had just enough time to recognize they were in a subway tunnel before warning bells went off in his head again and he pushed Jason out of the way of a mountain of rubble falling down after them.

He watched in horror as his push sent Jason spinning through the air to hit _hard_ against the subway wall, head making a horrifying _clunk_ as he fell to the ground, limp. Then Peter could see nothing at all as the rest of the street fell down on top of him.


	9. I-8. In the Tunnel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man is trapped under a mountain of rubble with a rescue worker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said whump would start for realsies around chapter 10, but it's starting now bitches
> 
> CW for claustrophobia, being trapped under a rubble, self-hatred, thoughts of self-harm/suicide, numbness, head injuries, death/dying, neglect
> 
> edit: whoops, I uploaded the wrong draft of this before I'd done final edits. Should be fixed now; only minor changes--nothing that affects the story.

It was dark, and cozy. Peter was tucked under a pile of blankets, a comforting weight on top of his aching and bruised body. Or maybe a weighted blanket? There had been one at the therapist’s office, the one Ms. Rhee made him go to. He didn’t like the therapist, or the office, but he loved that weighted blanket. Had he fallen asleep in therapy? That didn’t seem right.

Peter moved to stretch out the sleep, but his arms weren’t obeying his orders. _What?_ He tried again. Nothing. He opened his eyes, and…nothing. The blackness didn’t change.

He blinked, rapidly, trying to get some sort of control. His finger twitched—yay, he wasn’t paralyzed!—but he couldn’t see, and each breathful of air was harder and harder to suck in.

And the _pain_! He didn’t know how he’d missed it earlier, but fuck if everything didn’t hurt. Just so much. Ugh. His head was…ugh.

Peter groaned. Blinked. Wow, it hurt to breathe. He turned his head—just a little, couldn’t move much—and his cheek scraped against something jagged and rough. Concrete? Where the hell was-?…oh. The memories came flooding back: the pink fire burning through the sky, bodies trapped under rubble, and then falling down, down, down as the ground fell down on top of them, and the dull thud of the nice rescue worker’s head on the hard floor. _What was his name? Jack, Jay, John…something like that. Jason!_

“Jason?” Peter called out. Or he tried to. At first only a puff of dusty air escaped his lips. He tries to cough, breathe in, try again, but it’s surprisingly hard to get the air into his lungs. _Oh, right. Literal fuckton of concrete and metal and God knows what else on top of you, Parker._

_Gotta get out, Spider-Man. No one’s coming for you. You are the search and rescue. Ugh. Ow. Okay, step one: breathe. Just breathe, Spider-Man. Need oxygen to function._

But damn if that wasn’t easier to think than do. Just—no give, no give anywhere. Can’t even see and the space is all around him, dark and dark and dark forever, and solid rock and stone in every direction. _Up_ is somewhere, but Peter honestly can’t tell which direction it is, which side of him is being crushed. He’d been better at knowing the difference, back before the bite.

 _Breathe. Just breathe. You can do this, Spider-Man_. And somehow? He does, gasping like a fish left out on the docks to dry. Not enough air, but he’s breathing now. He’s breathing, and he’s sobbing, and he’s _choking_ on the dust and his tears and the overwhelming fear, and he’s choking on air that won’t make it past his throat. He can’t move. Can’t see. Can’t breathe.

He knows this is his penance, this terrible pain and stillness, for failing to save the dead. That woman on the ventilator, the baby and its mother. Ben. May. His parents. Purgatory, or something.

And it’s not just the dead that he’s failed. There are the kids back at the Fosters’: Elliot and his little sister Lily, fiercely protective of each other; Jada and Madison, unrelated and both going through a princess phase. They wouldn’t have enough to eat tomorrow if Peter didn’t return. He should have told Ms. Rhee that something wasn’t right in the house. He should’ve—Ms. Rhee. She always looked so tired, when he saw her. And all he’s done was cause her more trouble. Raine, the middle-schooler from the group home. Who would keep tabs on them if Spider-Man died down here? Ned and MJ, whose friendship he didn’t deserve, always taking advantage of their love to make them cover for him, manipulate them into letting him use their things and their spaces and their support. Because Peter? He was a really shitty friend.

A moan cut through the darkness. Peter tensed. Forced himself to take a breath—and _ohgodjesus, that really hurts_. “Jason?”

A catch of breath, then a slur of something unintelligible.

 _Okay. Okay._ He can’t hear anything above them, or to the side. If there are rescue crews coming, they’re not close. Peter would have to do this himself. Step one: figure out a plan.

“Jason? Hey, buddy. Can you hear me?” And _oh God_ it hurt to breathe, to force his chest and his ribs and his back to expand against the mountain of rubble on top of him.

Another moan.

Peter had to get out. He had to—he tried to brace himself, hoped down was the direction he was facing, and pushed up.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. Bad idea. Bad, very painful, bad idea. He collapsed, the load above him crushing back down on him.

A moan, somewhere to his right, that could maybe have been “Spidey?” if you really squinted. _Ear-squinted? Was that a thing?_

 _Keep breathing, Spider-Man. You need to let Jason know you’ll get him out of this_.

He tried. He really did try, but _fuck_ , when the road collapsed in on him that second time, it had settled in a way that flattened him and he couldn’t force any part of himself back up, not even his lungs. He couldn’t do it. He was fourteen—no, fifteen as of a few hours ago—and no one knew to be worried about him, and he was going to die, and Jason was going to die too, and it was all _his fault_ because Jason wouldn’t have been there when the street collapsed if it wasn’t for Peter.

He almost giggled, wondering what the world would think when they eventually fished out his body from the rubble and he was wearing his Spidersuit and the world all learned that he was a delinquent orphan twice over who kept getting in trouble with the foster system. Not your typical image of a hero. He wondered if Ms. Rhee would get in trouble, for letting him vigilante about. Not that she’d let him, but she was technically in charge of his welfare. He winced. She was gonna feel so guilty when he was dead, even though it wasn’t her fault at all.

He was so dizzy, swirling in the blackness, and everything was so close, and so hot, and so much, and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, and oh shit—this was it. This was really it. This was how he died. In some ways, it was almost a relief. And fuck if that didn’t scare him.

There was something hot on face, hot and—wet? _Tears_ , he realized. He was crying. Crying and shaking, as much as the rock and concrete would let him. And as soon as he realized it, he was sobbing, and sobbing required air, and _fuck_ , it hurt to breathe, to lift that mountain on broken ribs and bruised shoulders, but he couldn’t stop. It wasn’t voluntary. He sucked in the air, desperate, and sobbed the hurt out in ragged gasps.

In response, a clattering to his right, where the moans had come from. And suddenly—light. Not much, not enough for someone non-enhanced to see by, just a sliver of stale, underground evening, but it was enough. It was enough.

“Shaaaiyee?” the slurred voice came from the light. “I caaa-” A pause. A pant. “Caaa moo. Caa moo ‘nee mor. Sh’rry.” The words were so hard to make out, to decipher, but Peter thought he caught the jist. _I can’t move any more. Sorry_.

“Jason?” Peter forced out.

“Yeeah. I caa-” A sob. “Sh’rry.”

“It’s okay,” said Peter, trying to mask the pain in his voice. “It’s okay. We’re gonna be just fine, Jason. I’m gonna get us out of this, all right? Can you back up, away from where I am? Somewhere that seems structurally stable. Best you can find. Don’t want you to get bumped again when I shake off this little dirt bath.”

He tried to laugh and _oh_ , that was a mistake.

The sound of shuffling, dragging, rough breaths. Then silence. Distant breathing.

 _Okay. Gotta move, Spider-Man. Come on. Come on, Spider-Man. Come on, Peter_. Peter forced himself to push up again. Nothing, except pain. _Jason’s counting on you, Spider-Man. Elliot and Jada and Madison and Lilly are counting on you. You can’t leave them here like a coward just because you’re afraid of a little pain._

So he kept pushing. Kept pushing up, and _fuck fuck fuck_ he was screaming, his back was screaming, his lungs, his arms, his shoulders, his legs, every part of his body was screaming and still he had to keep going, keep going so he pushed, and suddenly there was a gap. A gasp of air, and he could take in a full breath, a real one, never mind how his ribs hated that and screamed in agony, just breathe and push and pain and—he reached his hands into the gap he had made, felt something hard and solid and rough, and pulled. The thing—broken concrete slab?—cut into his palms, and his useless body scraped against unforgiving rubble, but he moved. He moved, and suddenly he was out, into the subway tunnel and able to breathe, or at least gasp bonelessly on the floor.

A rumble behind him as the debris settled into the hole where his body had been.

“Shaiyee?” The whispered voice was tentative, and Peter saw a shape—Jason, had to be Jason—drag itself nearer to him.

Peter blinked. He goggles were slightly askew. He pawed blindly at his head, pulled them off. No point down here, where the light was already filtered. The blurry figure above him did indeed resolve itself into Jason, dreadlocks and dark skin covered in scrapes, breathing a bit weirdly.

Peter forced himself to sit up. “Jason,” he gasped. “Hey, buddy. How ya doin’?”

“Yaa shaaed me,” said Jason. “Aaah yaaa-?” And then he doubled over, retching and puking, and the sharp vinegar taste of bile filled their little air pod beneath the rubble.

A sympathy groan escaped Peter’s lips in response, and he thought that he, too, might like to thrown up. But nothing came. Tentatively, he tried to catalogue his own injuries in the dark. Concussion, definitely. Lots of cuts and scrapes. Bleeding. He didn’t think he had any spinal injuries, which was something. Broken ribs, definitely. Bruising. Internal bruising as well, probably. His shoulder had popped out again. Several fingers felt crushed. The wrist on his good arm was either sprained or broken. Same for both ankles.Something was sticking out of his thigh, but on the outside, thank God. Not near any major arteries.

Satisfied that he was in condition to move himself, if not in optimal fighting form, he scooched himself towards Jason, putting a bit of effort into avoiding the vomit on the ground.

“Hey, Jason,” said Peter. “How’re you doing? Thanks for getting me out of there, buddy. Can you look at me? I know it’s dark, but…” He trailed off, as Jason’s eyes tried to focus.

It was hard, even for Peter, to tell how dilated his pupils were, whether his gaze was off. But he thought it was.

“Hey,” said Peter again, soft. “I’m just gonna check your head. Just your head and your neck to start, all right? Then I’ll check the rest of you.” He ran his fingers through the older man’s locs, feeling for bumps and blood. He found both, but not enough blood that Jason was in immediate danger of bleeding out. The bumps, though, that was worrying.

May had insisted on medical training, when she found out he was Spider-Man. It had been one of her only conditions, besides checking in and doing his homework. She had insisted that he get certified in basic first aid, then the EMT-B training course, which they couldn’t really afford but had been so useful and comprehensive, and her own medical boot camp on top of that from her own experience as an ER nurse. It had come in so handy on so many occasions, not just for his own wounds, but for those of the people he came across as Spidey.

So Peter knew just how serious this was. There were a few open wounds, which Peter bandaged as best he could with Jason’s shirt and jacket and Peter’s own torn-up suit, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Jason was slurring, unfocused, and there was wetness at his nose and ears. Peter couldn’t tell in the dark whether it was blood or cerebrospinal fluid, and his hands were already so covered in blood that he couldn’t smell which one it was, but either was a bad sign. Two black eyes, Peter was hoping he’d hit them in the fall, but his gut told him internal bleeding. This could be fatal, if he didn’t get Jason to a hospital soon. Or permanently debilitating. _May died from a head wound_ , his mind whispered. _Not even one as bad as this one. You pushed him_ really _hard._

Peter’s heart sped up in his throat and his chest, because what if Jason died, and it was all his fault, he would have killed him, he would be a murderer, and he hadn’t meant to, but he’d pushed too hard, and _fuck_. _Fuck_. Jason had just been trying to help him, trying to look out for him, and that’s what happened to any adult in Peter’s life who tried to care. They died, violently and horribly and it was all Peter’s fault. For a moment, he wanted to dash his own brains out on the subway wall in penance, in restitution, in ‘get these fucking thoughts out of my brain.’ But he couldn’t. That wouldn’t help anything, and he didn’t deserve death or oblivion.

“Okay, Jason,” said Spider-Man, pushing aside Peter Parker’s internal freak-out. “I’m gonna find us a way out of here and get you to a hospital. I need you to stay here, yeah? Just lie down and stay still, and I’m gonna get us out. Can you do that for me?”

Jason made some noise that Peter took as assent, and Peter gently laid him down, head slightly elevated on a chunk of rubble. It was the best he could do.

Then he started searching for a way out. It was slow going, the light dim and oppressive even to Peter, and he couldn’t move without gasping in agony. Couldn’t get out the way they’d come in: there was the mountain of rubble that had been on top of Peter, and Peter wasn’t in good enough condition to climb it. Plus he was worried it might collapse back on them. He followed the tunnel for a few hundred feet before he realized they were blocked that way by another collapse. That one felt hot to the touch, and there were a few winks of pink fire piercing through. The alien slug robot-thing must have torched the foundations of the subway system during its attack, and they’d slowly collapsed under their own weight.

Peter limped back to Jason, pleased that he could walk, even if every step was absolute agony. “All right, don’t see a great way out, but I have a new plan.” He fished Jason’s phone out of his pocket. “We’re gonna call for help.”

Jason’s phone was an android, cracked to all hell. But it still turned on. Battery at 12%. No signal. Peter wandered around the room, trying to get as high as possible with his limited range of motion, agonizingly pulling himself up the wall on sticky limbs, but no luck. The battery wore down to 8%.

Peter frowned, turned on the flashlight and did a quick sweep of the area. Nothing he could see with the flashlight that he hadn’t already figured out in the dark. He could now tell that Jason’s eyes weren’t dilating correctly. So, that was…just great.

Peter sank to the ground, turned off the flashlight. 6% battery. He turned off the phone.

God, he was tired. He was tired and he didn’t want to die and he didn’t want to be a murderer and it was so terribly unfair that he’d gotten all this way just to fail now. _Okay, think, Spider-Man. Think, Parker._

He wanted to cry, but he didn’t have the energy.

He just sat in the dark, and tried to make peace with the fact that Jason would die here, probably right in front of Peter, while Peter could do nothing because he didn’t know what to do with a head injury that severe besides go to the hospital. He didn’t think Jason had very long left. He’d become increasingly unresponsive over the last…however long it had been, and Peter still couldn’t hear any sound of rescue crews coming to get them. So soon, Peter would officially be a murderer.

He wondered if he would live long enough to have to deal with that. Peter didn’t think he would die from his wounds, but if he didn’t get out in the next day or so…dehydration was just as much a killer as trauma, and Peter had already lost a lot of blood.

Peter felt he should talk, try and keep Jason company as he slipped in and out on consciousness, but he didn’t have the energy for that either.

So he sat, and he thought about death, and all of the things he wished he had done, and he didn’t cry because he had neither the energy nor the water to spare. The tunnel grew darker, so that even Peter couldn’t see, and then it was just his and Jason’s breathing, and the occasional scuttle of a rat.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when the idea came to him. He curled his fingers around Jason’s phone, cracked it open against the wall. Very carefully removed the battery and set it aside. He’d need whatever juice was left in there. Then he did the same thing to his own phone, Ned’s bluetooth headset, and his webshooters. Now he had parts. No tools, no sight, almost no juice. But he had parts.

He worked by touch and by smell. Once or twice, when he wasn’t sure of a wire’s composition by smell alone, he licked it to confirm. Used his teeth as scissors and knives, his nails as pliers and screwdrivers. He put all his focus into this task. _Don't think of the man slowly dying next to you_.

Finally, he thought he had working radio. He connected it up to the battery, and started to scan frequencies.

Static.

Static.

Static of a different flavor.

Country music.

Static.

Advertisement.

Static.

Advertisement.

Static—wait. Beneath the static, talking. He couldn’t make out words, but if he could just boost the signal a bit… He fiddled with his placements, praying for something to come clear. And…yes! Sounded like the firefighter’s channel, now he could hear words. Peter grinned. He could work with that.

“Come in, come in. I’ve got a civilian with severe head trauma trapped under debris. I think we’re in the Z-train tunnel somewhere between 121st St station and 126th street. Anybody copy?”

* * *

It took hours for someone to pull them out of the rubble. Peter put his goggles back on when the first sounds of people moving above reached his ears. He checked his mask was intact, and waited. He could hear them working above, though they couldn’t hear him after his radio died ten minutes or so after putting out that first call. They talked about how to dig them out without collapsing the tunnel on them again, how to get them up, what condition they might be in.

They made a hole in the roof, and suddenly Peter could breathe again. He winced against the harsh light of pre-dawn, and shouted up. “If you lower a stretcher down, I can strap him in.”

They wanted to know Peter's status, who he was, but Peter wasn’t super forthcoming. “He’s a rescue worker. His name’s Jason. Just send down the stretcher please.”

Discussion, but they did it. They widened the hole enough to fit a body. Peter strapped Jason in, gave them the all-clear, and sent him up.

Then they sent the stretcher back down for him. “Can you strap yourself in?” they called. "We can send someone down-“

“No!” Peter shouted. “I’m good. I’m good. I can do it.” He lay down on the stretcher, but didn’t strap himself in. Made himself sticky so he wouldn’t fall, but Peter couldn’t—wouldn’t—go to the hospital. Oh man, this was gonna hurt.

The second he was clear above ground, he was off running. Or run-limping. Moving reasonably fast.

“Spidey?” One of the rescue workers gasped, but Peter was already gone, scrambling desperately over a wall, sprained wrists screaming, and onto a solid street.

He could hear pursuit behind him, and he knew, he just knew he couldn’t keep going, he was going to collapse any second, so he ducked into an alleyway and threw himself inside a dumpster, closing it on top of himself and burrowing himself deep under the bags of trash.

Oh God. This was worse. This was worse than the tunnel, than the mountain of rubble, than anything. Because now it was unbearably hot, so close on all sides, black on black on black once again, and it _stank_. His entire body wanted to crawl off his skeleton. Oh _fuck_. The smell. He could hear searchers in the street, heard the lid of the dumpster being opened, held his breath, and—

It closed again.

He was safe.

He didn't dare move. For...some amount of time. A long time.

In the end, Peter crawled out of the dumpster and then back to Ned’s apartment. He arrived sometime in the late morning. Ned and MJ were there, obviously having had no sleep.

Someone ran him a shower, stripped him out of his suit, helped him clean and stitch up his wounds. MJ, he thought, and he couldn't even summon up the energy to care that the girl he might have a crush on was seeing him naked.

Peter shook, and collapsed onto the mattress. He couldn’t speak. There were no words.

* * *

Three days later, he’d healed up his external injuries and mostly fought off a nasty infection with the help of Ned and MJ. Ned built a voice modulator and MJ used it to call Peter in sick to school, pretending to be Mrs. Foster. His ribs were still cracked and sore, and he kept both wrists and ankles in homemade braces just in case, but Peter had super-healing. He would be fine.

Ned, proving once again invaluable as his man in the chair, had hacked into the police and hospital records for Peter. So Peter knew exactly where to find Jason.

He left the Leeds apartment through the door and headed to the hospital. Snuck his way up to the third floor. It didn’t take him long to find the rescue worker. He was asleep, or unconscious, monitors beating steadily all around him. A woman who looked like him—a sister maybe?—sat beside him, holding his hand and reading a book out loud. Sometimes she cried while she was reading, and didn’t even seem to notice the tears. Peter watched for ten minutes, and Jason didn’t move at all.

He’d already had the medical records from Ned: medically induced coma, unclear if he would ever reawaken, severe brain damage, would need significant physical therapy to regain any motor and cognitive function if he woke up. Peter thought of the nice man who’d offered him a granola bar and water, who had turned away to keep his identity safe, who had tried to pull him out of the rubble even with a massive head wound. He felt sick, and had to throw up in a hospital guest bathroom.

He returned to the Fosters that evening. The parents hadn’t realized he was gone. The kids were angry, and scared. Peter didn’t have any answers for them.

Elliot had rationed out the food to make it last two nights instead of one, so the kids were only a little bit hungrier than usual, and Peter hated to think where Elliot had learned that and why he thought it was necessary to do that first night.

He lay down on his mattress—too loud, too creaky, bad texture, painful—and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t sleep, and he didn’t speak, and he didn’t know how to keep going.


	10. I-9. Check-In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhee's perspective on Peter's fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to note/flag here. Just a little breather before things pick up again.
> 
> Take care of yourselves <3

As the summer turned to fall and the fall to winter, Rhee felt vindicated in her decision to take Peter out of the group home. Oh, he still got in trouble. Constant trouble, disappearances, once or twice Rhee swore she saw bruises under his sleeves, but there was never any sign of injury when she made him go for a physical after those sightings. She kept checking in with Peter, worried about abuse, but the boy just laughed and deflected. If there was abuse, she didn’t think it was coming from any of the homes. He didn’t stay in any one foster home long enough for it to line up.

There was some progress made over those first few months, even with the rotating door of homes and constant escape attempts. She got Peter a therapist. Peter didn’t like her. “She thinks all of my problems are related to my trans-ness. Like, hello, I’ve also got loads of trauma here. You know, the whole ‘dead parents’ thing. Uncle shot to death in front of me, bled out in my arms; only remaining person who loved me died in a stupid home invasion. Geez Louise, Ms. Rhee, it’s like I’m handing her the juiciest traumatic backstory of all time on a platter and all she wants to talk about is _genitals_.”

Rhee wasn’t sure if the god-awful morbid humor was a Gen Z thing or a foster kid thing, but she’d been around it enough now to ignore it. “Geez Louise?” she asked instead, voice dry.

She got him a new therapist. Peter didn’t like that one either, but that was too bad for him. There was a shortage of therapists going around, especially ones that took the Medicaid program that foster kids had, and Peter desperately needed help with his mental health.

The new therapist dug up an old ADHD diagnosis, and also slapped him with PTSD and ODD. That last one was Oppositional Defiant Disorder, or a chronic inability to listen to the adults around him. Rhee supposed it fit. Just like in the group home, he was perfectly polite and obedient and kind to all of his fosters’ faces, and then he would completely ignore all of their rules and not come home until 4:00am.

He showed up to the court-mandated therapy sessions, but Rhee was pretty sure the new letters on his file were the only thing he got out of it. That and a 504 Plan, which meant he could take breaks for flashbacks and panic attacks at school. If Rhee suspected that he was using them more often than he needed, she didn’t say anything. He was a sweet kid, and deserved a break. Plus he was a straight-A student at one of the top schools in the city. Except for his constant disappearances, he was a model kid.

He got a job. Then another one. One as an after-school tutor, and another as a busboy at a diner on the weekends. Those, he attended no problem and never missed a shift. No attitude, no anything. It was only at home that he had a blatant disrespect for all authority figures.

But. Any trouble the boy got into stayed at the family level. Including the one family who had literally accused him of being Satan, which was a new one. But Peter hadn’t hurt anyone or even done…well, anything, as far as she could tell, so she took him out of that home and revoked their credentials to foster. Peter managed to avoid any more court visits. No more strikes on his record. No more trouble with the law. Rhee was certain that wouldn’t have been the case if he was still in a group home.

Still, Rhee worried. Moving around so much wasn’t healthy for a kid. She stopped receiving reports of misbehavior when he went to the Fosters’ place, and Rhee worried even more. Consistent misbehavior didn’t just disappear overnight, and after a few weeks there, the kid seemed quieter, more withdrawn. Where before he’d thrived on cynical and morbid jokes, laughing at the tragic absurdity of his own life, now his comments and quips held a bitter and jaded edge. His constant Pollyanna cheer was still there, but forced. It felt like a mask he was forcing himself to put on. Rhee hated it. But the home checks came up fine, the kids were all clean and fed, and Peter never had any complaints despite Rhee’s prodding, so she couldn’t do anything besides keep an eye out and look for a more suitable placement.

Rhee also set him up with a mentor, a grad student at NYU who was pursuing a doctorate in bioorganic chemistry. It’d be good for the boy to have some positive male role models in his life, and Steven had come out of the system himself. He knew what it was like.

Apparently Peter was as blatantly disrespectful of Steven’s time as he was the group home’s and his foster parents’, but this mentorship thing wasn’t technically mandatory and Steven was understanding. He said they were slowly but surely building a rapport, and he didn’t want to push the kid away by forcing him to be there.

Finally, towards the end of November—two weeks after Peter turned fifteen—she found a permanent placement for the kid. They were an established foster family, with two younger kids in the house already. Religious, but no qualms about taking in a trans kid. They’d done a picnic with Peter, and it had been awkward but raised no red flags. Rhee’d been doing this long enough that she knew this was about as good as it got on short notice, and even though she still hadn’t heard any complaints about the Fosters, they were still giving her a bad feeling.

She thought the promise of a new place might be enough to keep the kid out of trouble, but on the day he was slated to move, she got a call from his school.

So, she found herself once again staring down the Parker kid in her office. It was a familiar scene. He was curled into the sagging armchair she’d scooped off the curb, feet scuffing against his duffel bag on the floor, arms hunched over the backpack in his lap. Over the past two months and six moves, the boy had quietly trimmed down all of his possessions to fit in those two bags. Everything else was either in storage or at Ned or Michelle’s place.

“What,” said Rhee, “the fuck.”

Peter shrugged, defensive.

If someone had told her three months ago that this doe-eyed white boy with his cheerful geekery and his pathological adherence to respectful forms of address would be one of her most troublesome cases, she would have laughed them out of the room. Now, she wasn’t laughing.

“You have a rotating schedule,” Rhee said, voice flat, “of when you skip which class.”

“Well I have to!” Peter defended himself. “I can’t let my grades drop below As, otherwise I’ll lose my scholarship, and a certain amount of class participation is required for that. So I worked out exactly how much class I could skip and still maintain my GPA without arousing any disciplinary action—which I _haven’t_ , by the way—and set it up. It’s been working fine, and no one’s hurt, and my grades are fine and I haven’t even got in trouble at school, so I don’t get why my teachers tattled to you and are making this whole big deal of it.”

“Skipping class, even when no one gets hurt, is a cause for concern, Peter. Your teachers are worried about you. _I’m_ worried about you.”

He just shrugged again. “I’m fine, Ms. Rhee. I can take care of myself.”

“You’re a _child_ , Peter. You shouldn’t have to.”

He snorted. “Sure.”

And God if that cynicism wasn’t familiar and heartbreaking all at once. She let that particular argument drop. “And _why_ , exactly, do you need to skip so much class?”

“I got stuff to do, people to see, trouble to get into.” He grinned wickedly. “You know, normal kid things that kids do. For fun, and no other reason.”

“Uh-huh,” said Rhee, not impressed. “Girlfriend, boyfriend, fuckbuddy? You know if they’re free during the school day, they’re too old for you.”

Peter face went bright red and he made a disgusted noise. “No,” he said, “ew, no. I’m not sneaking out of class because I’m _dating_ someone. Geez, Ms. Rhee, what kind of person do you think I am?”

“The kind who’s sneaking out for _some_ reason. A reason that he refuses to share with the adults that care about him. And that is getting him into serious trouble. And that is making people very worried about his continued wellbeing.”

Peter shrunk into himself. “Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t offer any explanations.

Rhee sighed. “Talk to me, Peter. Please.”

He didn’t say anything, just made himself smaller.

“Was this sneaking out something you did before? Your teachers indicated that this was a thing last year too. How did you deal with it before, with May and Ben?”

Peter glared at her. “It wasn’t a problem,” he said, tone demanding she back off.

Two months ago, she never would have brought up such a touchy subject. But she was running out of options. “What made it not a problem?” When he just continued to sulk, she pressed him. “It’s a problem _now_ , Peter, and we need to come up with some kind of solution otherwise I’m worried that you might end up in juvie, and that’s really the last thing a bright young thing like you needs.”

He scowled. “For one thing, they never threatened to send me to _jail_ for sneaking out.”

She breathed, counted to ten. “Fair. That’s fair,” she said. “But the system it isn’t fair. Life isn’t fair,” she added with a roll of her eyes. “I’m sure you’ve heard that one before. But your life in particular isn’t fair.”

“I _know_ that,” he muttered.

“So work with me, Peter. You’ve been dealt a shit hand and you’re in a system that is often cold and unfeeling and cruel. The rules are strict and the punishments can be harsh. But, I _swear_ , they are there for a reason. They are there to keep you safe, and protected, and healthy. You’re obviously dealing with a lot, kid. I want to help, Peter, but I can’t help unless you let me. So please, I am begging here, let me help you.”

Peter chewed his lip and hugged his backpack tight. “You sound like Ben,” he said.

Rhee blinked, surprised that that had actually gotten through to him. She didn’t let it throw her for long, though. “He must have cared about you very much.”

“Yeah,” said Peter, face far away. “We used to fight all the time. There were things I didn’t tell him—things I _couldn’t_ tell him.” He swallowed. “Maybe I should’ve.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “It was my fault, you know.”

Rhee didn’t say anything, but tried to show she was listening.

“He was looking for me, when he got shot.”

Oh. _Oh_. “Peter, honey, no—that’s not your fault. That’s not—”

“And I _tried_ , really hard. After he died. I tried so hard not to worry May…” He sucked in a breath. “I just…sometimes I need to be alone, and just walk. Around the city. It’s a thing. It helps me think, and focus, and get out the bees—you know, the energy. I used to do it all the time. Especially after—after Ben died. Aunt May got it,” he said, voice quiet. “I mean, I needed to check in with her, sure, but…I just need to _go_ , sometimes. And she _got_ it, so it wasn’t a problem.”

Rhee breathed. Her heart hurt for this tiny boy, with so much hurt inside him. But sympathy wouldn’t solve his problems. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. Hopefully, we’ll be able to find a family that supports your…walks. But in the meantime, this can’t continue, Peter. There are healthier ways of channeling your energy. Have you thought about team sports?”

“No!” He shot up in his seat and stared at her in obvious betrayal. “No team sports. I don’t need more structured things or mandatory group activities or whatever. I need to be _alone_. _By myself_. I just need some goddamn privacy and I don’t get why that’s so fucking hard!” He choked back a sob. “I’m not bad, or hurting anyone,”—he flinched from his own words, but it was gone in a second and Rhee wasn’t sure if she’d just imagined it—“and I’m keeping my grades up, and I don’t get why I can’t just have some time to _myself_!”

Rhee shifted back in her chair. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah.” The kid had a point. “Listen, I’ll talk to these new fosters about giving you some space, but…no promises, kid. There really are good reasons why you shouldn’t be out on the streets at 3:00 am. Or skipping class regularly.”

“Fine,” he sunk back down. “Whatever. Can we go now?”

“Can you promise not to sneak out at all hours and cause untold worry?”

He just looked at her, unmoving.

Well, this was going nowhere fast. Time to change tracks, before she used up whatever small amount of trust she had left with the kid. “A few more things,” she said, tired. “One: the sentencing hearing is next Monday. November 30th. Marie and I will come to pick you up if you still want to go. You’re scheduled to speak, but you don’t have to.”

Peter swallowed and nodded. “I’m going,” he said.

“Okay,” said Rhee.

“What else?” asked Peter, voice dull.

Rhee toyed with her nails. “We’re not leaving things on things on this god-awful note. What’s something you’re finding interesting right now?” It was her go-to question to end meetings on. Something positive. She never asked _what’s something that makes you happy?,_ even though that’s what she meant. She’d made that mistake once, at the beginning of her career. Never again.

Peter shrugged.

“Anything in class catch the attention of that big brain of yours?”

“Not really,” he said. “It’s all pretty easy for me, which makes it kinda boring.” There was no trace of bragging in his voice. Just a simple truth.

Even though she’d just teased him about being smart, Rhee had to blink back her surprise at the reminder of just _how_ smart. The kid was a sophomore at one of the best schools in the city, taking all advanced classes and skipping a lot of them, getting straight As, and he still found it _too easy._

“Well, have you been discussing anything interesting with Steven? I know you’re both into chemistry, and you mentioned his dissertation sounded interesting the last time we talked. Something about”—she had to check her notes here—“the potential of achiral enzymes in Chitauri macromolecular protein structure?”

Peter sighed. “Yeah, I guess it’s kinda interesting. Like, it’s cool that the Chitauri DNA or RNA equivalent isn’t reliant on having homochirality as a means of information storage, because it definitively proves that life on other planets isn’t necessarily chemically encoded the same way it is here, but, like, it doesn’t really have any practical implications for the here and now? I kinda want to toss some ideas for the Stark Competition at him, but I might go the robotics angle for that and that’s really not his thing. Either robotics or biosynthetic polymers, but I kinda don’t want to do polymers because…” he trailed off and flushed. “Sorry. This is probably really boring for you.”

“Not really,” said Rhee. “I don’t understand a lot of it, but I like listening to you talk about things you’re interested in. What’s the Stark Competition?” she asked, seizing onto some of the only words in Peter’s spiel that she could actually understand.

“Oh yeah!” Peter lit up. “I haven’t told you about it yet. It’s really cool. So, it’s this competition for high school students, to, like, recruit the best and the brightest or something.” And then was off again at a mile a minute, telling her all about the competition and the R&D process and scholarship awards.

“Wow,” said Rhee. “That’s huge. Sounds very exciting. So, you’re going to invent something for this competition?”

Peter nodded, bouncing in his chair. “I don’t know _what_ yet, but it’s gonna be good. I mean, I’m probably not gonna actually _win_ anything, but it’ll be fun and maybe I could get one of the partial scholarships? That would really help, for college and stuff.”

Rhee smiled. “That sounds really great, kid. And I for one can’t wait to see whatever it is you come up with. You were telling me about your ideas? Something about…robotics or synthetic polymers?”

She didn’t understand a word that boy said in the next half hour, but it was worth it to see him outside his shell, full to bursting with enthusiasm. By the time she dropped him off at his new family and made sure he was settled, all thoughts of trouble had been wiped away.


	11. I-10. A Brief Lull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete moves homes yet again. Pepper has a late-night chat with her boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% happy with this chapter, but I've spent so much time re-writing and fiddling with it and I need to publish it before I can get into some of the angsty trauma whump stuff that I've already written. So, enjoy some infodumps on how Pete's doing after the subway collapse, and the first real introduction of the Potts-Stark-Keener trio!! I love them all so much.
> 
> No huge tws in this one, mostly referenced stuff from the past: the subway collapse, head trauma, some mild emotional manipulation, car accidents (& resulting death); amputation

After the tunnel—after Jason—Peter’s body healed and he continued to function. He went to class, he did his homework, he went to work, he fed the kids, he went to other work on the weekends, he sometimes even visited the “mentor” Ms. Rhee had set him up with, a PhD candidate at NYU who let him hang out and talk science in the NYU labs sometimes. His name was Steven, but he went by Skip, and he’d spent almost his whole life in foster care until he aged out. It was nice sometimes to just vent at him about the system and get tips on how to deal with it. Learn where the loopholes were.

He forced a smile for the kids, because they needed someone to lighten their load, and then kept it going for Ned and MJ and Ms. Rhee and his teachers and everybody else. He pushed down the guilt, and the trauma and despair, because he _needed_ to help, needed to keep doing good and the only way he actually knew how to do that was with friendly chatter and optimism. Trying to see the good in people. May had always said, “if you look for the good in people, then people will be good and the world will follow.” And he _did_ , he saw so much good all around him: Ned, MJ, the Foster kids (if not the Foster fosters), Ms. Rhee, Skip. All of them trying to help and support him. All of them hurting for it. The world didn’t follow good with good. Just more bad.

Especially for Jason. Peter kept visiting him at the hospital. Or, more accurately, Spider-Man kept climbing up the walls and creepily watching him through the window. Or, more more accurately, because Peter hadn’t replaced his suit since it’d been destroyed in the crush, a random guy in a super sketchy black mask with all of Spider-Man’s powers creepily watched Jason through the window.

Jason still hadn’t woken up. He almost always had someone with him, a constantly rotating cast of characters. Peter thought they were probably family. A huge, loving family. Parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents.Maybe a spouse or a partner. Some of the visitors brought children with them. He didn’t think any of them were Jason’s kids, but what did he know? Had ripped away the father or uncle of some other poor kid, like that mugger had ripped Ben away from him?

He thought about turning himself in. Stood behind the police station once or twice, staring at the back entrance. But he never did. He told himself it was because he didn’t want his blood to get into the wrong hands, that it would endanger the world if he were arrested, but that wasn’t the truth. The truth was Peter was scared and ashamed and couldn’t face his failures. Just one more thing he was too weak to take responsibility for. _With great power_ …yeah right.

“You tried to _save_ him, Peter,” Ned insisted in his newly-replaced bluetooth headset as Peter did his creepy spider stalker thing. “The road would have collapsed no matter what.”

“The road collapse wasn’t what hurt him. It was me. _I_ pushed him, and that’s what caused his injury.”

“If you hadn’t pushed him, he’d be dead,” said MJ.

“Maybe, but he wouldn’t have even been there if I hadn’t-”

“Yes, he would,” MJ interrupted. “He was a first responder digging people out of the rubble. He would have been there. Except if you hadn’t pushed him out of the way, or bandaged him up, or figured out how to call for help, he would be dead. He would be dead ten times over. Because of you, he has a chance to keep being with his family. That’s something, Peter. What you did? That’s what a hero does, not a criminal.”

Peter bit his lip and didn’t say that he _was_ a criminal, that vigilante-ing was a crime. That he really wasn’t all that different from a lot of the people he webbed up.

That first week after the tunnel collapse, Peter didn’t patrol. He wasn’t up for it physically. He probably also wasn’t up for it mentally. He wasn’t sure how to keep going. Wasn’t sure he deserved to. But he kept visiting Jason.

Then Ms. Rhee got him transferred to a new home _again_ , and he couldn’t patrol until he figured out how the rules of the new place.

* * *

Home number six, the Caldwells, was a potential “forever home.” That was such a stupid name. Peter was a bit resentful that he’d been taken away from the Fosters. Sure, they were really shitty parents, but he didn’t feel bad about not caring about them and it was easy to do all his Spider-Man stuff when he was staying with them. Plus now it would be more difficult to smuggle food to the little kids, and he wouldn’t be able to make sure they stayed clean and had all their school supplies and help with their homework. It was stupid. He didn’t want to move again.

He thought about telling Ms. Rhee, now that he wasn’t there any more, about how shitty the Fosters were. He thought she might already suspect, the number of leading questions she asked about them. But he didn’t want the littles to be sent somewhere worse, or for Elliot and Lily—who were siblings and had been seperated before—to be split up again. Even though the Fosters had been objectively the worst parents out of all the homes _Peter_ had lived in, he’d now cycled through almost two dozen foster siblings, and most of _them_ had stories of at least one home that was worse. Usually more than one.

So Peter didn’t say anything. He still didn’t feel great about it. He had a pit in his stomach the whole ride over to the Caldwells’ that only grew as Ms. Rhee left, but he couldn’t tell whether that was his spidey-sense or anxiety or guilt or normal nervousness at going to live with strangers.

Their house was really nice, an actual townhouse with a yard and everything. There were vases of real flowers all over the place, and the entire inside shined with how clean it was. Peter felt dirty just standing there, but the Caldwells didn’t say anything. Mr. Caldwell was a balding man in his forties who wore Mr. Rogers-style sweaters and made bad jokes. Mrs. Caldwell was like a traditional housewife straight out of the ‘50s, all smiles and peach cobblers and a legit pearl necklace.

They gave Peter and Ms. Rhee a tour. Peter got his own room, already decorated in a sort of nautical theme.

After Ms. Rhee left, Mr. Caldwell suggested, “Why don’t you go up to your room, unpack, take a shower, and get changed for dinner? We got your size from your caseworker, so there should be a closet full of clothes that fit. We can do introductions and rules at dinner.”

For lack of anything better to do, Peter followed those instructions. He didn’t actually unpack, because he needed his bags ready to go in case something happened, but he did take a shower. Peter only had four T-shirts, two pairs of jeans, and two pairs of pjs currently, because textbooks and spider-gear took up most of his space, and it was weird pulling on different clothes after the shower. Weirder still because they were very much not his style, khakis and polos and preppy sweaters. He felt distinctly uncomfortable in them, and guilty about how much he was sure they cost, but it also felt rude not to wear them when they’d asked him to.

Dinner was really good. Roast chicken, potatoes, and brussels sprouts. They said grace beforehand, but didn’t say anything about Peter not joining in. They used cloth napkins. With napkin rings. Who _did_ that? Peter did his best to mind his manners and not let how awkward he felt show.

There were two kids already there: Zach and Simon. Zach was only ten, but he was taller than Peter already, probably 5’10, all awkward elbows and bony knees. He was a quiet kid with dark skin, large brown eyes that watched everything, and hair cut so short he was nearly bald. Simon was his opposite: chubby and pale with floppy blond hair, barely over four feet tall, and hyperactive and excited at Peter’s arrival. Even though Simon was a year older than Zach, eleven and a half,he acted much younger, more like he was three or four. Zach helped Simon cut his chicken when he had trouble with it, and tried to calm him down when he got flail-y. Peter didn’t do anything, still too uncertain about the rules and his role here.

After dinner and dishes, the Caldwells set the rules: help with chores, be respectful, no stealing, no hurting anybody, he had to be home by 6:00 every night for dinner, stay home after that unless he had a specific, pre-approved reason, and he had to go to church with them on Sundays.

Peter wasn’t a huge fan of that last one. Or the 6pm curfew, but that could easily be solved once he figured out how to effectively sneak out.

“I’m not really religious, Mr. Caldwell,” Peter said. “Could I maybe visit my friend Ned instead?”

There was a long pause where Peter worried that maybe he’d done something wrong, but then Mr. Caldwell smiled and said, “I understand your reluctance, Peter. And we certainly don’t expect you to believe. But we go to church as a family activity, and we want to make sure that you’re part of the family now, okay?”

A weird mix of feelings circled around in Peter’s guts. He didn’t know quite how to name any of them. Guilt, maybe?

“I just…” It seemed rude, to keep turning them down when they were trying to welcome him into their family, but he didn’t _want_ to be part of their weird 50’s utopia thing. He had a family, even if they were all dead, and he definitely didn’t want to go to church. “If you don’t want me hanging out with a friend, that’s fine. I could pick up another shift at the diner? Sunday brunch is always a big rush.” He scuffed his foot against the floor. Yup, definitely guilt.

Mrs. Caldwell leaned forward. “I know that this is difficult for you, Peter, and that you may have had some bad experiences of organized religion”—he hadn’t actually, he just didn’t want to go—“but you need to open yourself up to new experiences and new connections, build a support network. And this can be part of that. Will you come, please?”

And there wasn’t really anything Peter could say to that, so he smiled and nodded and tried to ignore the growing pit of uneasiness in his stomach.

* * *

Pepper cut Tony’s blaring music to nothing and swiftly replaced it with the _tap-tap-tap_ of her heels. Her boys weren’t in any of the obvious lab spots, but if she stood in the middle of the room and waited just so…

“Hey, Pep, that’s very important tinkering music, so if you could just—” Tony wheeled himself out from under the corvette he’d been fiddling with.

She fixed him with a glare. “Thirty-six hours.”

“What?”

“That’s how long you’ve been up. Thirty-six hours.”

“Please, Pep, that’s barely a blip.” Tony brushed her concerns aside. “You remember that week in Ibiza? Don’t think I slept the whole time.”

Pepper remembered the week in Ibiza, but she very much doubted Tony did. She didn’t say that though. She was in a merciful mood. “If you’d slept in Ibiza, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten that incredibly unsightly rash. Besides, you didn’t have a kid then.”

“Who’re you calling a kid?” said Harley, also sliding himself out from under the car. He was wearing some fairly ridiculous steampunk-type goggles and his hands and nose were smudged with grease. It was adorable. Pepper tried not to smirk at him.

“Oh, Tony’s kid enough for the both of us, but he promised to _set a good example_ for _impressionable young minds_.” That last was a very pointed remark aimed at Tony.

“Pretty sure I’d have to look up to Tony for him to make an impression.” Harley objected.

“Fair point.” Pepper nodded. “Maybe one day he’ll become someone worth looking up to.”

“Um, savior of the world multiple times over, anyone?” Tony cut in. “Iron Man? Genius billionaire philanthropist? Ringing any bells?”

“Mm.” Pepper humoured him, adjusted his collar. “Man who didn’t think to change out of his $600 white dress shirt before sliding under a car.”

Tony pointed a wrench at her. “I had to wear the dress shirt. You’d be very proud of me. I have a…” he searched for what he’d had.

“A board meeting,” Pepper supplied.

“A board meeting,” Tony echoed, giving no indication that he’d heard her. “Can’t go to that in my mechanic’s clothes.”

“Couldn’t go to it at all, it seems.”

“No, no, I’m gonna go. I promised, didn’t I?”

“Unless you’re making that thing”—she pointed to the car—“into a DeLorean, that ship has already sunk, Mr. Stark.”

“What? No. The meeting wasn’t until eight. And now it’s—FRIDAY, what time is it?”

“It is currently 2:06 AM, boss.”

“Ah shit,” said Tony. He took Pepper’s hand and kissed it. “My deepest apologies, Ms. Potts.”

“I’m sure.” Pepper rolled her eyes and pulled back her hand, then turned to Harley to hide her smile. “How’s the birthday car coming, champ?”

Harley grinned. “We’re installing retroreflectors, so I’ll basically be able to be _invisible_ when we finally get this thing up and running.”

The thing had been up and running since Harley’s sixteenth birthday several months ago, but the two of them kept adding on James Bond-style knick-knacks and gadgets. Pepper also didn’t call them out on their delaying tactics. As established, merciful mood. Instead she merely blinked and turned to Tony. “That can’t bestreet-legal.”

Tony shrugged. “Technically, kid’s not street-legal, either, so…”

“No. Absolutely not,” said Pepper. “At the very least, you are getting your license before driving that thing.”

“But, Pepper…” Harley whined, as if he hadn’t balked at the thought of taking his driving test three times now.

“No buts,” said Pepper, in a tone that brooked no further arguments. “Now, both you: sleep. Chop chop.”

“ _I_ haven’t been up thirty-six hours!” Harley protested.

“Right,” said Pepper. “Hey, FRIDAY, how long has Harley been up?”

“Don’t answer that, FRIDAY!” called Harley.

FRIDAY, of course, was not to be deterred. “Mr. Keener has been awake for twenty-two hours.”

Tony winced.

Pepper fixed them both with a meaningful glare.

“It’s not like I have school in the morning,” Harley grumbled.

“No, but you do have online classes, and homework, and lessons with Tony that will _actually be real lessons and not just blowing stuff up in the lab_.”

Tony made an offended noise. “Ms. Potts, I’m beginning to think you don’t trust me to supervise a minor’s education.”

“Only just catching on, Mr. Stark? You’d better take that ‘genius’ out of your resume.”

Tony shrugged, loose. “Still a billionaire philanthropist. That’s better than most people. And most people don’t have a Pepper Potts.” He snaked a hand around her waist and went for a dip.

“Ugh!” said Harley, as Pepper swatted at Tony playfully. “Gross old people love.”

“Are you calling Pepper old, young man?” Tony rounded on his pseudo-son.

“No, but I’m calling you old, old man.” Harley stuck his tongue out.

Tony bopped him on the head.

“Real mature, grandpa.”

“Boys,” Pepper warned, but there was a smile behind her steel. “Bed.”

Tony and Harley grumbled, but Pepper always won these arguments. Her boys went off to their respective bedrooms.

Pepper called goodnight to Harley through his door, then bid farewell to Tony with a lingering kiss.

“And where are _you_ going, Ms. Potts?”

“I,” said Pepper archly, “have a video conference with Shanghai. In ten minutes. So unless you would like to keep me company…”

Tony shuddered. “Yeah, no. There’s a reason I gave you the company, and this is it.”

“Really? I thought it was so I could clean up after your messes more easily.”

“That too,” Tony admitted readily.

She kissed him again. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

The call with Shanghai went well enough, and ended at 3:30am on the dot (3:30 _pm_ for them). Pepper sighed and rubbed her temples, shrugged out of her blazer. The white dupioni had smudges of black engine grease on it from where Tony had grabbed her earlier. Pepper closed her eyes for a second, then went to the kitchen. She pulled out some cornstarch and dish soap, and dabbed a bit of both on the stain, laid the jacket out on the counter to soak.

Then she set the kettle to boil. “FRIDAY, turn down the lights?” she asked, voice quiet.

“Of course, boss,” said the AI. “12% brightness?”

Pepper smiled wearily. “Yes, that will do just fine. Thank you, FRIDAY.”

She leant against the counter and toed off her shoes, felt the porcelain beneath her feet. Breathed until the kettle went off. Then she very deliberately went about her nighttime ritual: three mugs of hot-chocolate, half water, half milk with a mini candy cane hooked over the rim of each cup. She could have used the coffee machine, but there was something calming about doing it by hand. Not calming enough that she ever actually bothered to make it on the stove, but still.

She was halfway through her mug when FRIDAY spoke again. “Boss? Other Boss has just woken up.”

Pepper hummed in acknowledgement. “Nightmare?” she asked.

“It appears so, yes.”

Pepper sighed. “Well, let him know there’s hot chocolate in the kitchen.”

“Yes, boss.”

Tony padded into the room a few seconds later, barefoot in black sweatpants and a plain blue hoodie. She pushed one of the mugs towards him wordlessly.

He slumped into one of the counter chairs and sipped his drink. She let him get about a third of the way through before she spoke.

“Want to talk about it?”

Tony shook his head. He fished his candy cane out. It had been eroded by the hot chocolate and was now more of a pick than anything else. He poked at the back of his hand with it.

A few minutes later, he broke the silence. “I was not cut out to be a father,” he said.

“Cut yourself some slack. You’re doing a lot better than your own father, Tony.” She considered him. “And Harley’s father. His biological one.”

Tony grimaced. “Whoopee, I’m marginally better than a deadbeat disappearing act and my own shitheel of a dad. Everybody, stop the presses.”

“Tony.” She had not survived as Tony Stark’s PA by indulging in his pity parties.

He met her unimpressed stare with one of his own. “The kid needs—whatever it is that kids need. Water, fresh air, sunlight.”

“That’s a houseplant you’re thinking of.”

“Toh-may-toe, toh-mah-toe.” He took a swig from his mug. “I’m fucking it up, Pep. I’m fucking _him_ up.”

“All this because he didn’t sleep for a few hours?”

“It’s more than just that, Pep. When was the last time the kid slept for more than three hours?”

Pepper raised an eyebrow. “I never sleep for more than three hours at a time.” It was true. She slept for three hours at night, then squeezed in religiously regimented naps throughout the day. It worked for her, but probably wasn’t healthy for a teenage boy.

“You know what I mean. He’s still having nightmares. Flashbacks.”

“So are you,” Pepper pointed out. “So am I.” Tony made to speak, but she cut him off. “Don’t apologize. I make my own decisions, Mr. Stark.”

“You were kidnapped because of _me_ ,” Tony argued.

“It had nothing to do with me being an ex-coworker he was creepily fixated on and also the CEO of the company that personally turned him down, noo. That had nothing to do with it.” She huffed. “Not everything is about you, Tony, as much as your psychoses make you think it is.”

“Harley is,” said Tony. “He should be out there having a normal childhood, going to school, doing kid stuff, getting drunk, going to parties. Instead the only friends he has are us gross old people.” He scoffed and rolled his eyes at his own words, but Pepper could tell he meant it.

“We could try school again-”

“Kid said no. And I don’t blame him. I mean, it’s awful enough being a Stark kid and dealing with the paparazzi and the pressure and the leeches hanging off your every move, but _three_ kidnapping attempts in three weeks?”

“Also not your fault,” said Pepper.

“Yes, because there’s such a big market for kidnapping random eleventh graders from Rose Hill, Tennessee.” Tony toyed with his empty mug. “He should have friends, Pep. Friends who aren’t you or me or Rhodey or Happy.”

Pepper was silent for a moment. “Did he have friends before? I don’t know what he’s talked about with you or his therapist, but he’s never mentioned any to me.”

Tony’s face somehow collapsed even more. “His sister,” he said, barely a whisper.

“It’s not your fault,” Pepper said again.

Tony’s eyes flashed. “I could’ve made sure they were safer. I could’ve gotten them a better car. Hell, I could’ve _made_ them a better car. Or upgraded-”

“People die, Tony,” Pepper interrupted. “Sometimes you can’t stop it. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I should’ve been there,” Tony said.

“How could you have known? Cars crash. There are over a million deaths from car crashes every year. Just in the US, ninety deaths a day. You can’t save them all.”

“I should’ve been there,” Tony insisted.

“You’re here now.” Pepper took his hand in her own.

“How?” he asked, eyes searching. “I don’t know how. I didn’t have…anyone, until Rhodey. And that was _college_. And then there was you. Pep, for the longest time, you were it. And then-” _The Avengers. Steve_. He shook his head. “I don’t know how to be there for an adult, let alone a kid. I never had—I don’t want that for him, Pep. Because I don’t know if you noticed, but beneath all those mountains of money, the fancy cars, the great hotels, the truly phenomenal food, the designer drugs, the fantastic alcohol, the supermodels throwing themselves at me, the prestige and fame, the well-deserved accolades-”

“I get it,” Pepper cut him off. She sighed, ran her hands through her hair. “I get it. I didn’t have anyone either. It’s not a fun life.”

“I mean, I had plenty of _fun_ ,” Tony protested.

She rolled her eyes. “I have a plan, actually.”

“Ooh. Do tell, Ms. Potts.”

“Excuse me, boss, other boss,” FRIDAY interrupted.

Tony frowned. “Which one of us is ‘other boss,’ FRI?”

“You are, other boss,” Pepper and FRIDAY stated at the same time. Pepper grinned at the ceiling, even though she knew FRIDAY didn’t actually live there.

“Well that’s just ungrateful,” Tony groused. “I created you, you know. You could show a little respect.”

“You programmed me to provide pushback on all your ideas and sarcastic commentary, other boss,” FRIDAY stated. “In addition, you asked me to inform you when Mr. Keener arose. He is currently awake and on his way to the kitchen.”

Tony grumbled under his breath while Pepper put the last remaining mug of hot chocolate into the microwave.

She fished out the hot chocolate just as Harley entered the kitchen, rumpled in an Iron Man t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants. He’d left his left leg off for this late-night trip, opting instead for the scooter. She put some mini-marshmallows in his mug from her secret stash before sliding it over to him.

Tony squawked. “How come I didn’t get mini-marshmallows? Blatant favoritism, Ms. Potts.”

Pepper just nodded her agreement. “Want to talk about it, Harley?”

He made a face and shook his head, hunched over the mug. Pepper leant against the counter, heart aching at the matching images of her two traumatized boys.

“What were you two talking about?” Harley asked, voice still rough from sleep. “Before I came out.”

“Just FRIDAY’s blatant favoritism for Pepper over me,” Tony cut in before Pepper could say anything.

The three of them—boy, man, and machine—riffed for a while, the general consensus being that, yes, Pepper should be the favorite. Pepper smiled and ducked her head, accepting the praise, though it made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t quite name. Sure, Tony didn’t need any more people inflating his ego, but there was always some hint of dark self-loathing under his jokes. She didn’t want to encourage that. And she was hardly the perfect paragon of saintliness they portrayed her as.

Pepper knew herself. She was…efficient. She was efficient, and competent, and brutal. Nice, when she had to be. Mean, when it was called for. Cruel, if she needed. She had practically run the largest weapons manufacturer in the world for over a decade. Sure, Tony had designed the weapons. Stane had dealt with the board, and made black-market deals with terrorists. Pepper had handled everything else. Manufacturing, shipping, contracts. The things that turned killing ideas into actual death. She had killed Obadiah and Killian with her own two hands, and she had no regrets for either of them. Pepper, beneath a veneer of respectability and tailored dresses, was ruthless and unforgiving. She had fewer friends than even Tony, no family worth speaking of. She didn’t know how to be loving, or nurturing, or caring. It wasn’t in her blood, though she’d tried her best with Tony. Her best, she worried, wouldn’t cut it with Harley.

So, when the conversation died down, Pepper spoke. “We were talking about you, actually, before you came out.”

Harley looked at her, frowning. “What?” he asked, while Tony made desparate _abort_ motions behind his back.

Pepper ignored him. “You’ve mentioned wanting to get more involved in the industry side of Stark Industries. I was about to tell Tony about my plan to show you the ropes.”

“Oh, cool!” Harley started chattering on about ideas while Tony acted out a little mini-drama behind his back. The jist was something along the lines of: _how dare you scare me like that, I thought I was gonna die, I see that amused little smile, not cool, Pep_. 

“We’ve opened up this competition,” Pepper explained, when Harley took a breath, “it’s a PR thing, mainly. Giving opportunities to smart and talented youth. But we’re going to be getting a lot of submissions of inventions, and we need someone to go through them all. I was hoping that you could take the initial pass, see what’s junk and what’s worth taking a second look at. Then, we can start introducing you to the manufacturing people, the people in R&D—especially the people outside of mechanical engineering, since you’ve got Tony for that, the lawyers, the marketing folks, the safety compliance people. Basically let you get a look at how an SI product is made and sold, from start to finish.”

Harley, predictably, was thrilled, and started babbling on about this and that. A few minutes into his stream of conscious narrative, his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Is this another sneaky effort to get me to socialize with people my own age because it’s ‘developmentally appropriate’?”

Pepper met his eyes, unfazed. “If that’s what it was, I would have made socializing mandatory. You don’t _have_ to meet any of them.” She paused. If she left it there, Harley would be suspicious for the whole project. The kid knew manipulation when he saw it, courtesy of being a master manipulator himself. So Pepper continued, _“But_ , if one, or more, of the entries catch your attention and you want to talk more with the creator…” She let the idea hang in the air.

Harley pursed his lips and studied her. “I’ll do it,” he said. “On two conditions.”

She gestured for him to name his price.

“One: if I don’t want to talk to any of them, I don’t have to.”

Pepper nodded. That was a given. When they’d tried to force Harley to socialize, after the failed attempts at school, the results had been…not pretty. “And the second condition?”

“I want there to be an interview thing where I pretend I’m getting interviewed too and can do, like, a secret test of character on all the contestants.”

Tony snorted, and Pepper bit back a laugh. “I think that can be arranged,” she said.


	12. I-11. The Sentencing Hearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hearing is held to determine the sentence for the person who killed May. Peter bears witness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo-boy. This is an intense one, and super long. Tw for: domestic abuse (explicit recounting of physical violence and isolating behaviors in a court setting), self-hatred, flashbacks, hunger, homelessness, child abuse, sexual abuse of a minor (very heavily implied, but not explicitly recounted), just some really shitty parenting, explicit transcript of the 911 call over which May died, anxiety, blaming/not believing the victim of abuse (called out in-story). All of the awful stuff happens after the line break.
> 
> I’m also going to include a brief, non-explicit summary of the entire chapter in the beginning notes of next chapter if you want to skip over the whole thing.
> 
> Stay safe, and take care of yourselves.

Peter was not at all prepared for the sentencing hearing. He’d been at the Caldwells’ for a week and a bit, and still hadn’t figured out how to sneak out to do Spider-Man things. MJ had temporarily taken over “making sure Elliot and Jada and Lily and Madison get properly fed” duty, but that couldn’t last. It took her two and half hours to sneak from Brooklyn to Manhattan and back each night, plus cooking time. 

Peter knew he had to get back out there, had to keep fighting, but—well. If he hadn’t been trying particularly hard, if he’d been having nightmares of the subway tunnel where he pushed Jason under the pile of falling rocks and the man slowly suffocated to death, if he hadn’t even made himself a new suit yet, well…that was only because he was in a new place. Which was normal. Totally normal. Nothing bad had happened. He was fine. He was Spider-Man. He could handle it. He just needed a little bit more time.

Unlike Spider-Man, the sentencing hearing didn’t wait for him to be ready. He found himself in the Queens Criminal Courthouse on a Monday afternoon in late November, sitting on a hallway bench outside the courtroom with Ms. Rhee and Ms. Takahashi, his lawyer. He’d been adamant that the Caldwells not come. They were objectively fine, but he didn’t trust them. He didn’t want Ned or MJ there either. He didn’t want them to see this. Whatever ‘this’ was.

He still wasn’t sure if he would speak. He didn’t know what he would say. But he felt he should be there. He owed that to May.

Alexandra Namdakova. That was the name of the person who murdered May. She’d apparently broken in to the apartment to steal things, and killed May when she got caught. She’d got in through his bedroom window, three floors up on the fire escape. His stupid fucking bedroom window that he’d left open for easy access. He tried to hate her, Alexandra Namdakova, but the only hatred he could summon was for himself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid fucking Parker_. When he thought of her, the murderer, there was just…nothing. Just a terrible, terrible void, an emptiness in his soul. Maybe that would change when he saw her face-to-face. When he saw the kind of monster who’d be capable of taking someone else’s life for a few dollars. He hoped it would. He could use someone else to hate.

Ms. Takahashi said it was fine, whatever he chose to do at the hearing. He was scheduled to go last, and if he decided at the last minute not to say anything, that would be fine. Everyone would understand. He could leave in the middle if he wanted to. Everyone would understand. Whatever he chose, that was fine. Peter felt himself go rigid against the constant reassurances.

He stood up from the bench abruptly. Both adults blinked at him.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Peter ground out. He didn’t, but he did need _out_.

Ms. Rhee nodded. “Take your time,” she said. “We’ll text you when they call us in.”

Peter hated that gentle sympathy in her eyes. He nodded curtly, then left.

He ended up just pacing back and forth one hallway over. He didn’t want to be too far away. May might need him, so he needed to stay close by. Stupid thought. That was a stupid thought. _Why are you such an idiot, Parker?_ Stupid thought. He clenched his fists so tight that his fingernails broke skin. Good.

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me. I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me. I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.” Someone was muttering the mantra under their breath, voice strained with anxiety. It was so incongruous Peter stopped mid-pace and looked around.

The source of the muttered mantra was sitting on a bench, identical to the one Peter had been on a few minutes ago. She was maybe a few years older than Peter, a tall Asian girl in a cheap suit that she was obviously uncomfortable in, rocking back and forth and praying. A lawyer or a caseworker or something—suit and briefcase—sat next to her.

This was something he could do. He walked over to the girl. “Rogue One?” he asked with a small smile.

She startled. “Oh. Sorry. I thought—sorry, I thought I was being quieter.” Her voice was soft, and musical.

She was being very quiet, but Peter had superpowers. “Nah, you were,” he said. “I’ve got pretty good hearing. Does it help?” The lawyer or whatever he was was glaring at him, but Peter ignored him.

“What?”

“The”—he made a circling gesture—“mantra, or whatever. Chirrut Imwe, yeah? I loved that movie. I’m supposed to like, testify or something, and I’m kinda freaking out and I thought, maybe…does it help?”

She laughed, softly, and then choked back a sob. “No, not really. I— No, not really.”

“I’m Peter by the way.” He stuck out his hand.

She stared at it for a second before taking it. “Sasha.”

“So….are you a Star Wars fan?” When she didn’t answer right away, he backtracked. “Sorry. Sorry, I can go, if you wanna be alone, or-”

“No! No, sorry. Sorry, I just—It’s just…I really don’t deserve—I mean, you don’t have to stay, if you don’t…sorry.”

Peter wasn’t an idiot. He knew if she was here it was probably because she committed a crime. But that didn’t make Sasha evil. “Wow, we’re doing a lot of apologizing back and forth.”

Sasha’s face went dark. “It doesn’t mean anything, if you’re sorry. It doesn’t change-” She took a shuddering breath. “Sorry. Sorry, that was…sorry.” She chuckled wetly. “That was a lot of apologies. Sorry.”

Peter huffed a small laugh. “So…Star Wars?” He certainly didn’t want to talk about his upcoming hearing, and she doubted she did either.

“Yeah,” she said, blushing. “It’s silly, I know. It’s just a movie with space swords and stuff, but…”

“But?” Peter prompted.

“I saw it when it came out. So what was that, two years ago now?”

Peter thought for a second. He’d gone to the premier with Ned. That was…“Yeah, Jesus. Two years ago.”

She nodded. “I’d just got out of a pretty bad relationship, and things were…not great for me. But I’d been a big fan of the movies when I was a kid, so I went to go see it. Alone. It was the first thing I’d done without—” She cut herself off. “Anyway, it just kinda spoke to me, you know? And I just use it when I need hope, to calm myself down, or when I’m sad, or when things are too awful to—” Her face crumpled. “But it’s not really helping any more. I think I’ve cut myself off from the Force.”

She groaned and thunked her head back against the wall. “Wow, that was idiotic. That was the most childish, stupid-”

“I don’t think you’ve cut yourself off from the Force,” Peter interrupted. “It’s like…one of the main themes of the movies. Like, Darth Vader was still redeemable in the end, and he purposefully murdered a bunch of children in cold blood. So, unless you did that…”

“Might as well’ve,” she muttered darkly.

 _Whoops_. “But you didn’t,” Peter pointed out, hoping it was true. “You still care. That’s pretty obvious. And I know the Light’s supposed to be all about detachment or whatever, but…caring about people? I don’t think that can be wrong. And, you know, maybe you did something bad. I don’t know, and I don’t need to know. But…that doesn’t make you inherently bad, or evil, or undeserving of redemption? Like, you might not ever be able to make up for what you did, but you can still go forward and do good? No one’s ever really gone so much that they can’t return to the light. I dunno. That’s just what I think.”

Sasha was silent, but he could tell she was listening. She wiped away a few tears. “Thanks, Peter. For…all of that. For coming over. Sorry I’m such a mess.”

Peter shrugged. “No biggie. Distracts me from my own mess, so really I should be thanking you.” His phone buzzed in his pocket. “Um, I should be getting back though. I think I’m up soon.”

“Okay.” Sasha nodded. “Good luck. Um, may the Force be with you.” She cringed a little at the absurdity of it.

Peter grinned, feeling much lighter. “And also with you.” 

* * *

There were a bunch of people in the courtroom. Apparently they called the cases in in batches. Peter sat with Ms. Rhee and Ms. Takahashi at the very back, close to the door for a quick exit. He saw Sasha with her grumpy lawyer towards the front and tried to wave at her and give her a thumbs up, but she didn’t see him.

Things moved fast. People got up, the lawyers spoke, the judge spoke, and bail was set, sentences were decreed, plea deals accepted or rejected. It was confusing, and a lot, but also kinda reassuring? Like, very obviously routine for most of the people there. People filtered out as they finished their business, and the courtroom slowly emptied as the afternoon wore on.

Finally, they called out, “People v. Namdakova, Docket Number 18-Q-112968.” This was it.

There was some shuffling, people moving up and down the aisles. Sasha was one of them, her lawyer’s grip tight on her elbow. There was some meaningless talk between the judge and lawyers and some other people, setting things up. Peter stared at the people in the front, trying to pin which one of them was May’s murderer. He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t see anyone that looked the part. Sasha was there. Why was Sasha there? She was sitting in the witness chair. Had she seen it, somehow, when May died? Or heard it?

And then the judge said, “State your name for the record.”

Sasha took a breath. Her soft, melodic voice was barely picked up by the microphone, but Peter didn’t need that to hear her. “Alexandra Namdakova. Sasha. I go by Sasha.”

 _Oh_. Oh. Peter’s blood ran cold. Sasha killed May. Sasha, who liked Star Wars and was only a few years older than Peter and had wished that the Force be with him, killed May. _Sasha_ killed May. The world went out of focus. He couldn’t hear what they said next. He couldn’t see. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right. This wasn’t right.

A gentle touch on his shoulder. Too gentle. “Peter, we can step outside if you need-”

“No.” He yanked himself away. “No. I need to be here.” He was breathing too shallowly. “I need to be here,” he repeated. He needed to be here for May.

He hunched over, forced himself to focus on the scene at the front of the courtroom. “And how old are you?” Her lawyer was asking.

“Eighteen,” said Sasha. “No, wait—sorry. Nineteen. My birthday was two weeks ago. November 20th.” She was a Scorpio, some part of Peter’s brain noted. Same as him.

“Thank you,” said the lawyer. “Could you please describe your living situation at the end of August of this year?”

“Um, I wasn’t really living anywhere. Just around, I guess. Alleyways, sometimes, or public bathrooms.”

“So you were homeless?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she said. “It’s not an excuse-”

Her lawyer cut her off. “And why did you not stay in a shelter?”

“I was a minor, at first,” said Sasha. “And I didn’t want to go into the foster system. I- I’d heard bad things. And then I did, when I turned eighteen,” said Sasha. “I was there for a week, but then…I couldn’t any more.”

“Where were you staying before you were homeless?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Relevance,” said one of the other lawyers.

“Speaks to character and state of mind,” said Sasha’s lawyer. “Ms. Namdakova has experienced a significant amount of relevant trauma that affected her capacity for decision-making in the heat of the moment and should be considered in mitigating her sentence.”

“I’ll allow it,” said the judge.

The lawyer repeated his question. “Where were you staying before you were homeless?”

“With—with my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Mike.”

“What was Mike’s full name?”

“Michael Petraski.”

“And when did you move in with Mr. Petraski?”

“2014. In the spring.”

“2014,” her lawyer repeated. “So, how old were you then?”

“Fourteen,” said Sasha.

“And how old was Mr. Petraski at the time?”

“When we moved in together?” She thought about it. “Twenty-three.”

“And why did you decide to move in with Mr. Petraski, a man who was nine years your senior, at age fourteen?”

“He offered, when my mother kicked me out. I thought it was romantic. I thought I was in love with him.” Her voice was all sorrow, no trace of anger or bitterness. Peter felt sick.

“Could you elaborate about your mother kicking you out?”

Sasha nodded. Her eyes were focused at some point just above the floor, like they’d been the whole time she testified. “Yeah. She got a new boyfriend. He didn’t like me. Or he did, too much. My mom kept accusing me of trying to seduce her man, and eventually, it just got to be too much. Too much. She said I had to go.”

“So you moved in with Mr. Petraski?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you know him?”

“We’d been dating for about a year, then. We met at the library. After-school youth program.”

“And what happened after you moved in with Mr. Petraski?”

“It was good, for a while. It was really good. He spoiled me. He took care of me.” She sniffed back tears. “I’d never really had anyone take care of me before. It was nice.”

Peter swallowed down the lump in his throat. What would that have been like, younger than he was now and thinking no one loved you except a child predator? Because Peter knew what twenty-two-year olds who picked up thirteen-year-olds at after-school youth programs were called.

“Did the relationship stay ‘nice’?”

Her jaw tightened. “No.”

“Could you elaborate on that?”

“Yeah. Yeah. He convinced me to drop out of school. End of eighth grade. I thought…God, I was so _stupid_. I thought he was all I needed. And then he started to get jealous, when I was hanging out with my friends. So I stopped. And I didn’t really have anybody but him. And then he started to get violent.”

“Violent?”

“Yeah. He didn’t really want a girlfriend. I should’ve known that. He wanted…I don’t know. Someone to obey him.”

“And he got violent?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you describe the type of violence?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just—he’d hit me, sometimes.”

“With his fists?”

“Yeah. Or whatever was nearest. Books, a lamp, whatever was there.”

“Did you ever report this abuse to anyone?”

She shook her head. “No. No, I was so scared. I was so scared, and I just—By the time I stopped making excuses for him, I knew he’d kill me. He said he would. I know he would.”

“Did you ever go to the hospital to treat these injuries?”

“Just once. Usually I wasn’t allowed—he wouldn’t let me.”

“Can you describe that incident?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t chopping the vegetables right, so he just kinda pushed the knife outta my hand, and I dropped it, and it went straight through my foot. And I screamed, and he didn’t like that, so he took the cutting board and just”—she mimed a violent motion—“whacked me. Broke four ribs. And then my nose. Three fingers when I…” She raised her hands in front of her face, defensive.

“And you went to the hospital to treat these injuries?”

“Yeah.”

Her lawyer produced the hospital report, then several police records of domestic disturbances. Sasha told how she’d finally screwed up the courage to leave when she was seventeen, then how he’d found her at a shelter and beat her to a pulp when she left it.

Peter didn’t know how she was doing it, how she could stay coherent enough to even form words. _This_. This was what Spider-Man was for, and he hadn’t been there. He knew, logically, that there was no way he could have known, but he shook, with helplessness and rage and an endless, horrible sorrow. There were tears flowing down his face, in a silent, steady stream, and he didn’t do anything to stop them.

“Why did you break into the Parker household on the night of September 1st?”

“I just…I knew it wasn’t right. I _knew_. But I couldn’t get a job, or a place to stay, and I’d just been wandering for a few days, and I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t eaten anything in a few days, maybe a week, and I was dizzy and dehydrated and _so hungry_ , and I saw the window was open and there were some electronics in there, and I knew there was this pawn shop that didn’t ask questions and maybe I could get enough to have a few Big Macs and a shower somewhere, and I thought if I could just take one thing, just a little thing, it wouldn’t be so bad, because there were a lot of tech things in that room and I was just _so hungry_.” She sobbed. “It’s not an excuse, I know it’s not an excuse. I just…I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“And what happened when you entered into the apartment?”

“I climbed in the window, but I tripped on the way in. I was so dizzy, and I was on the floor, and suddenly there was a lady there. And she gasped and kinda backpedaled into the kitchen, and I just followed her. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t’ve…I should’ve just left, but everything was so dizzy, and I thought if I could just _explain_ …” She broke down crying. “I’m such an idiot,” she gasped out in between sobs. “I scared her, I think. And she grabbed a cutting board, and suddenly I was back with Mike, and I-I just didn’t want it near me, and I just _pushed_. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think—” She shook her head. “I just didn’t think. I am so, so sorry. And I know that doesn’t mean anything, but I didn’t mean to, I never wanted to hurt someone, and now she’s _dead_.”

There was a terrible roaring in Peter’s head, because how could this happen, how could this happen, how could something so horrible be an _accident_? It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense. This was _wrong_. Everything was wrong.

He saw Jason, in that subway tunnel, Peter pushing him away as the world came down on top of them, the terrible _clunk_ as his head hit the wall and his body went limp. He could have died; Peter could have killed him just like May was killed, a push and a clunk and then _nothing_.

The lawyer gave her a few moments to get her tears under control, then asked. “And what happened after you pushed her? What did you do?”

Sasha swallowed. “I was panicking a bit. I kept thinking I was still with Mike. But no blows came. Nothing came. And I saw—I saw where I was again and I saw she wasn’t moving, the lady. Mrs. Parker. She was just lying on the floor. And I didn’t know what to do. There was blood, in the sink and on the floor, and I could smell it and I didn’t know what to do. And I tried to throw up, or my body tried to throw up, but I hadn’t eaten in so long, there was nothing that came out. And I tried to wake her up. I tried to—” Her voice went high, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“But she didn’t wake up. She was breathing, but she didn’t wake up, so I found a phone and I called 911. And the 911 lady, she told me to stay there, and tell her what was happening, so I did and then the ambulance people showed up and the cops were with them and the ambulance people took her away and the cops stayed and they arrested me and then they told me she died, and she had a son, and—” She couldn’t pull herself together after that.

“I’d like to play a recording of the 911 call,” said the lawyer.

And then it was playing, a crackly recording:

> Operator: “Police Operator 5-2-6-8. Where is the emergency?”
> 
> Frantic breathing on the other end, then Sasha: “What? Oh my god, I don’t know. Somewhere in Queens. It’s um…oh my god I don’t know. I’m so sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, sorry.”
> 
> Operator: “Okay. Can you look around and see any street signs?”
> 
> Sasha: “No, we’re inside. We’re inside, and I don’t where I am and oh my God what if she dies? I don’t know where we are.” Sobbing.
> 
> Operator: “We’re tracing the call now. You said you’re inside? What floor are you on?”
> 
> Sasha: “Um, the third floor. The third one up.”
> 
> Operator: “Okay, we’re dispatching an ambulance to the scene. Can you tell me what the emergency is?”
> 
> Sasha: “I think she’s dying. Oh my God, what do I do?”
> 
> Operator: “Who is ‘she’?”
> 
> Sasha: “I don’t know. She’s a lady. She’s a lady who was in the apartment, and oh my God, what if I killed her?”
> 
> Operator: “Why would you think you killed her?”
> 
> Sasha: “I pushed her. I pushed her by accident and she hit her head and there’s a lot of blood and she isn’t waking up I tried to wake her up oh my God I’m so sorry I’m so sorry what do I do?”
> 
> Operator: “Is she breathing?”
> 
> Sasha: “Yeah. Yeah, she’s breathing. But she isn’t waking up. And there’s so much blood.”
> 
> Operator: “Okay. Are you injured?”
> 
> Sasha: “No, I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t think so.”
> 
> Operator: “Good. Can you find some cloth and apply pressure to the wound?”
> 
> Sasha: “Yeah, yeah. There’s a dishtowel, hang on-”
> 
> Awkward shuffling sounds, then the phone being dropped to the floor.
> 
> Sasha (muffled): “Wait, I’m going to put you on speaker.”
> 
> The quality of the recording changed as the phone switched to speaker.
> 
> Sasha: “Okay, okay. I folded up the dishtowel, and I’m holding it to her head.”
> 
> Operator: “Good. Good. Keep applying pressure, but don’t move her. Let me know if anything changes.”
> 
> Sasha: “Okay.”

Peter could see the scene is his mind, so clear. The dishtowel with the stupid ugly plaid that Ned had used to dry the dishes earlier that night. The mixing bowl he’d eaten beans and rice out of still out on the counter. May, on the floor beneath the sink, red blood, and Sasha panicking over her. The recording kept going, merciless.

> Operator: “What’s your name?”
> 
> Sasha: “Sasha.”
> 
> Operator: “Thanks, Sasha. What’s your last name?”
> 
> Sasha: “Namdakova.” A sob. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry-”
> 
> Operator: “Keep applying pressure.”
> 
> Sasha: “I am. I am. The bleeding’s slowing down. Is that good or bad?”
> 
> Operator: “Just keep applying pressure. Keep pressure.”
> 
> Sasha: “Yes. Yeah. I’m pressing.”
> 
> Operator: “Okay, they should be there soon.”
> 
> Sasha: “Okay. She’s still breathing. That’s good, right?”
> 
> Operator: “Yeah, that’s good. Stay with me, Sasha. Do you know what apartment number you’re in?”
> 
> Sasha: “No. No, but it’s the third floor. It’s the third floor.”
> 
> Operator: “Okay. Is there any way you can unlock the door and open it so that the EMTs know where to go?”
> 
> Sasha: “Um, I don’t know. I’d have to let go. I’d have to let go of her.”
> 
> Operator: “Don’t do that. I’ll let you know when they get there. Can you start shouting when I tell you to, so that they know where to go?”
> 
> Sasha: “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”
> 
> Operator: “Great. Good. Is there anyone else in the apartment, besides you and the woman?”
> 
> Sasha: “Um, I don’t think so. I don’t know. They probably would have come, right? If they were here? I don’t know.”
> 
> Operator: “Okay. How did you get into the apartment? Do you remember?”
> 
> Sasha: “Through the window. The window—I, I climbed in. There’s a fire escape. I fell.”
> 
> Operator: “You fell from the window?”
> 
> Sasha: “No. Well, yes. I don’t know. I tripped. But just onto the floor. I didn’t fall out the window.”
> 
> Operator: “Got it. Thanks, Sasha. Are you armed?”
> 
> Sasha: “Am I—? No. No, I’m just—Oh my god, it was the sink. She hit her said on the sink. I didn’t mean to. I just, I don’t know. I got confused. I’m so dizzy. Oh my God, there’s so much blood.”
> 
> Operator: “Okay, Sasha. Did you hit your head, when you fell? Or maybe after that?”
> 
> Sasha: “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
> 
> Operator: “Okay. Have you been drinking tonight, or have you ingested any substances that may have made you disoriented?”
> 
> Sasha: “No, no, I don’t think so. I don’t remember. I think I would remember. I haven’t had anything in a really long time.”
> 
> Operator: “Okay. The ambulance is just outside. Can you hear the sirens?”
> 
> Sasha: “Yeah, yes. I can hear the sirens.”
> 
> Operator: “Great. Can you shout ‘in here!’ so that they can hear you?”
> 
> Sasha: “Yeah. Um…Here! In here! Here! Please, help! In here!” Her voice cracked as she shouted.
> 
> Operator: “Great. Great. They hear you. The police are going to break down the door first, okay? They’re going to kick it down. Stay right where you are, keep applying pressure until the EMTs take over from you.”
> 
> Sasha: “Okay. Okay.”
> 
> There was a bang, and a small shriek, then a disorienting jumble of voices.
> 
> A new voice, male: “I’ve got her. I’ve got her. Okay. You ready?…One, two, three, up.”
> 
> Sasha: “Is she going to be okay? You’re taking her to the hospital. She’s going to be okay, right? If she gets to the hospital?”
> 
> Another new voice: “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to step aside. Over here, so the EMTs can do their job.”
> 
> Sasha: “Okay. Okay. Yeah. But is she going to be all right?”
> 
> Yet another voice: “Yeah, hi, dispatch. This is unit 29736 confirming 10-84.”
> 
> Operator: “Great. Great. You can hang up the phone and continue any communications over radio.”
> 
> The same voice: “Thanks, dispatch. Wilco, out.”

And then the recording ended. The courtroom was silent.

Peter thought of May, alone and scared. Maybe thinking he’d come home, but then it wasn’t him, it was a stranger, and she’d grabbed the first thing she could lay hands on, and then she was dead, still breathing but dead as the girl who killed her tried in vain to keep the blood in. Had she suffered?

Ben had suffered. He’d been alive for a few awful, gasping moments in Peter’s arms, and there was nothing he could do, nothing he could do even as he tried to hold the blood in with his hands and his bunched-up jacket.

May hadn’t been conscious. Did that mean it hadn’t hurt? Peter felt somehow numb and on fire at the same time.

But it still wasn’t over. The lawyer was _still going_. “Ms. Namdakova, you did not ask for a lawyer when you were taken into police custody and given the opportunity, correct?”

“Yeah, no, I didn’t.”

“And you pled guilty to murder in the second degree?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“Why not ask for a lawyer and plead for a lesser sentence?”

“Because…” she shrugged and looked around. “Because I was guilty. I _killed_ her. And the—the other lawyer, she explained that if you break into a place to steal something and you kill someone, even if it’s on accident, that’s second degree murder, so…that’s what I did. And I didn’t want to cause anyone any more trouble, and I just…I didn’t want to hurt anyone else. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

“Thank you, Ms. Namdakova. No further questions, your honor.”

The judge said something, and then a different lawyer stood up and went over to Sasha.

“Ms. Namdakova,” he said, “you and your lawyer have told quite a story here. I’m just gonna ask you some questions to clarify some things, okay?”

Sasha was pale and shaking, but she nodded.

“Can you please state all your answers vocally for the record?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

“So, first let’s talk about this Mr. Petraski. Is there any record that you lived with him?”

Sasha bit her lip and thought. “No. I don’t know. I wasn’t on the lease or anything.”

“Maybe some neighbors, a friend, a family member who could testify that you lived with him?”

“I—I don’t know. Maybe? I didn’t ever really leave the apartment, once I moved in. And people were always coming and going. I didn’t really know any of the neighbors.”

“Mm-hm. And could any of your friends or acquaintances vouch that you were in a relationship with Mr. Petraski?”

She shrunk back, shook her head. “I- I didn’t want to get him in trouble, at the beginning. And then I, well, I didn’t really have any friends, and after I left, I was just so-so ashamed, and I c-couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

“So, that’s a no then? No one besides yourself can vouch that you were even in a relationship with this ‘Mr. Petraski’?”

“This isn’t right,” said Peter, more a whisper than actual speech. He blinked, surprised at hearing the thought out loud. But as soon as he said it, he knew it was true.

Sasha was curled up into herself, trying to be small. “I guess- I guess not. Well, _he_ could, but-” A terrified whine escaped her lips. “I _swear_ , I swear I’m telling the truth. I swear—Wait. There is proof. Of course there’s proof. There were the police records, the, the, the domestic disturbance reports.”

“Ah, yes. The domestic disturbance reports of shouting where you—if it was indeed _you_ at all—refused to give your name, stated everything was fine, and refused to cooperate with the police.”

Sasha quailed before the prosecutor. “I-I-I-” she stammered.

“This isn’t right,” Peter repeated, louder. He moved to get up, but a hand grabbed his arm. He turned to look at Ms. Rhee, who was attached to the hand.

“This isn’t right,” he hissed, yet again. “He needs to stop. That isn’t okay.”

Ms. Rhee’s face was terribly blank. “Peter, you need to _sit down_. The prosecutor is just doing his job. You can speak when it’s your turn, but until then, you can’t do anything.”

“But this isn’t okay!” Peter yanked his arm back.

“Order in the back,” called the judge. “Do I need to have the bailiffs remove someone?”

Ms. Takahashi rocketed to her feet. “Apologies, your honor. This is the minor son of the victim, who was upset by the testimony. It won’t happen again.”

“But this isn’t right!” Peter protested. “He can’t just say that she’s lying and-”

At the front of the courtroom, what little blood remained in Sasha’s face drained out as she recognized him.

“Counsel, I understand your client is a minor, but-” The judge went on, but Peter was more focused on Ms. Takahashi whispering urgently in his ear.

“If you continue to talk back to the judge, you could get arrested, or thrown from the court, and then you can’t do anything to help, you don’t get to say anything. I will get you time to say your piece, but no matter what, the prosecution gets its cross. Even if they have to throw you out, they’ll just start over again. And that just means she has to go through it twice. That’s worse, right? You don’t want to make it worse.”

He turned to her. “But it’s not _right_ ,” he said plaintively.

“I know, I know, Peter. It’s not right, but you can’t do anything right now. So let’s get you out of the courtroom and you can rage all you want, and I’ll make sure you get back in to speak when this is over, okay? But if you keep speaking now, believe me, it’ll be worse for everybody, and the only person who wins is that jerkwad in the suit.”

“Fine,” Peter ground out. “But I need to say something. When it’s my turn-”

Ms. Takahashi met his eyes. “I will make sure of it.”

So Peter allowed himself to be steered out of the door by Ms. Rhee while Ms. Takahashi did some very fast talking to the judge.

➰➰➰

The adults thought it would be better if he were outside, that he wouldn’t be able to hear and that would somehow _protect_ him, but they didn’t know anything, they didn’t know him and they didn’t know he was Spider-Man. They didn’t know he could still hear, and even if he couldn’t, he was Spider-Man and he already knew about horrible things and the way people twisted your words and your actions when you didn’t have power and you couldn’t speak for yourself. They didn’t know, though they should have known, that he was Peter Parker and he already knew these terrible truths in his bones.

He forced himself to listen, to bear witness, as the prosecutor tore Sasha to shreds. As he claimed she made up the “boyfriend”, made up the relationship, made up the abuse, made up her time on the streets and the attack outside the shelter. He claimed she was a liar, an addict, a thief, and a whore—although he did not use those words, always holding to a veneer of politeness that made Peter’s teeth shake. Instead he said she _inconsistent_ , she was a _user_ , she was a woman of _consistently loose morals_. As if any of those things had anything to do with it. As if any of that, even if it were true, meant _murderer_. As if it meant _evil_.

Peter didn’t know what to do. May would know what to do. She’d know what to say. May had always known what to do.

But here, at May’s trial, Peter couldn’t even summon the memory of her voice. He kept thinking of Jason, of Jason and May and Ben and his parents, all circling around in his mind until they became the same. Broken flesh beneath his fingertips, darkness, and gone.

He didn’t know what to do.


	13. I-12. The Legacy of May Parker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter testifies about what May means to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry this took so long. I have the main scene from this chapter so perfectly visualized in my head, and then I just can’t translate it to paper. If this were not fanfic, I’d probably mark this scene down as bullet points and come back to it later once I’d finished the rest of the draft, but I want to be able to publish some of the later chapters that I’ve already written, so this rambly monologue of a chapter is getting put out into the world so I can move on with my fic and my life. I’m still not super happy with it, and would like it to be like 1/4 of the length it is, but what can you do?
> 
> Summary of last chapter: Peter went to the courthouse with Rhee and Marie Takahashi (his lawyer) for the sentencing hearing. Peter met fellow-teen and Star Wars fan, Sasha, in the hallway outside the courtroom, and they bonded a little. The sentencing hearing started, and Peter realized that Sasha was actually Alexandra Namdakova, the person who killed May. Sasha testified that she had really shitty child/teenage-hood, and had escaped a physically abusive relationship with a truly horrible adult man. She was homeless after she left him, and she broke into the Parker apartment to try and steal some electronics to pawn for food. May confronted her, and Sasha flashed back to times where she was being assaulted. She pushed May away, and May fell backwards and hit her head on the sink. Sasha panicked and called 911, then provided medical care to May until the ambulance arrived. The prosecutor cross-examined Sasha and implied that she made up the abuse in order to garner sympathy from the judge. Peter got upset, and almost got kicked out of the courtroom. Marie managed to do some fast talking so that Peter would leave the courtroom for the remainder of Sasha’s testimony and then return for his own statement. Because of Peter’s super-hearing, he could still hear the prosecutor attacking Sasha’s story and painting her as a liar and generally immoral person. Peter and Rhee are currently waiting outside the courtroom, and we’re picking up right where we left off.
> 
> I’m honestly not sure how to tag TWs for this one. Nothing from the above is discussed in any detail, but it certainly casts a shadow over everything. Other TWs include: death of parental figures & emotional impact thereof (a lot of it—it’s Peter), very briefly implied transphobia, physical schoolyard bullying (recounted, but not in detail), mentioned child abuse 
> 
> Take care of yourselves <3

Rhee tried once to comfort the Parker kid, but he pushed her away with a snarled ‘ _don’t_ ’ and she let him alone after that.

The hall outside the courtroom was mostly empty, and Rhee sat on the bench just outside with her head pressed against the wall while Peter paced back and forth like a caged tiger.

He was _furious_. All of that anger and rage compressed into a tiny body. She hadn’t seen it before, but _of course_ it was there. Of course it was.

Rhee wasn’t sure how she herself felt. There was emotion, somewhere, but it was locked deep inside her. This wasn’t her first rodeo. She knew how to compartmentalize when things struck too close to home. She couldn’t let herself feel anything until this was over. This wasn’t about her.

So she watched the Parker kid pace the halls, and she very deliberately did not feel anything. She could feel the vibrations of speech in the courtoom through the base of her skull, but the walls were too thick for her to hear individual words. That was probably for the best.

Peter paced, body tense, fists clenched, muttering something under his breath. Every once in a while he looked at the walls behind her as if he could see right through them and _snarled_. If she hadn’t already shut down, Rhee would have flinched at his intensity.

Time passed. Either too slowly or too quickly, Rhee couldn’t tell. Abruptly, Peter halted. His head snapped up and he stared intently at the door, unmoving. Rhee shifted to look over her shoulder, but nothing had changed. The doors were still shut, a low buzz of conversation still happening inside.

“Peter?” Rhee tried. “Is there anything-” She jumped as the doors squeaked open and Marie slipped out.

The young lawyer was pale and ashen, barely holding on to something like composure.

Peter met her eyes from across the room, still frozen in place. He was intent, focused, but some of the tension seemed to have lifted from his shoulders as the doors opened.

Peter nodded, more to himself than either of them. “It’s time?” he asked, though he clearly already knew the answer.

Marie nodded tightly. “Peter-” she started, then stopped. She drew a breath then started again. “If you-”

“I’m doing this,” he interrupted.

Marie’s gaze flicked over to Rhee, uncertain.

Rhee was uncertain too, but if the kid wanted to talk, by God she would get him his say. She nodded to Marie. “You want me to sit by you, kid?” she asked Peter.

He swallowed, made a motion that could be a shrug. “If you want.”

Rhee wasn’t sure if that was a _please, yes_ or a _hell, no_ , but she was sure it was one or the other. She grimaced. “I’ll be in the front row. If things get too much-”

“I’m doing this,” Peter interrupted again, insistent. His voice was almost a growl, determination barely masking fear. He turned to Marie. “How long do I have?”

“As long as you need,” said Marie. Then she winced. “If it gets to be like, an hour and you’re still not done, then the judge might-”

“That’s fine,” said Peter. “That’s fine. Okay.” He squared himself up and entered the courtroom, leaving Rhee and Marie stumbling in his wake.

Marie sent Rhee a panicked look.

On instinct, Rhee reached over and squeezed her hand. Tight. “Take care of my boy up there,” she said. “You can do it.”

Marie nodded, jaw tense, and collected herself, strode in after Peter.

True to her word, Rhee sat in the front row, diagonally behind the prosecution’s desk so that Peter had an unimpeded view of her. The courtroom was mostly empty now; she had no problem claiming a seat where she wanted.

The only people still inside were the various lawyers for this case, the judge, a few clerks, the court reporter, Rhee, Peter, and Alexandra Namdakova. The young woman was curled into herself at the defense’s table, face blotchy and tear-stained, horrified eyes set on Peter. Rhee wanted to shield her kid from the murderer’s stare, but Peter looked back at the woman who’d killed his only family and met her gaze with some emotion Rhee could not name. He did not flinch away, and he did not lash out. The two children stayed locked into in each other’s stares, some unknown and unknowable communication passing between them.

A sharp clack broke the moment. The judge’s gavel, resuming the proceedings. Rhee jumped in her seat. Peter didn’t.

“All right.” The judge spoke. “It’s 3:42pm, we’ve just returned from a brief recess and are back on the record. Counsel, you have the floor.”

Marie nodded and smoothed her skirt. “Thank you, your honor. Marie Takahashi, counsel for Peter Parker, the minor son of the deceased victim. Mr. Parker wishes to make a victim impact statement, and with the permission of the Court, we will proceed directly with that.”

The judge twisted to look at Peter. “You understand what’s happening now, young man? Your lawyer will ask you a few questions for the record to establish who you are, and then you have the floor to say whatever you want about your mother. Does that all make sense to you?”

Peter nodded, pale but steadfast. “Yes, ma’am. Your honor. Judge. I mean, it makes sense. I understand.”

The judge nodded, then gestured to Marie. “You may proceed, counsel.”

“Thank you, your honor.” She stepped up to face Peter, smiled warmly. “Peter, hi.”

“Uh, hi,” said Peter.

“Could you please state your full name for the record?”

He swallowed nervously and nodded. “Peter Parker. Peter Benjamin Parker.”

“Thank you, Peter. And how old are you?”

“Fourt- No, fifteen. I’m fifteen. My birthday was on the 11th. I’m a Scorpio, same as Sasha.” He gestured abortively to his aunt’s killer, huffed out something trying to be a laugh. “We both had birthdays pretty recently, I guess.”

Rhee forgot to breathe for a second. _Sasha?_ Did he know her? How in the hell did he know her star sign?

Marie seemed similarly flustered, and even the judge looked a bit taken aback.

“Oh,” said Marie, stalling for time. “Do you know Ms. Namdakova, then?” That very much should have been something everyone in this room was aware of _before_ the hearing. Before any of the criminal proceedings, actually. Rhee cursed herself. How had she missed that? She wracked her brain, trying to remember if Peter had reacted with any kind of recognition when he’d learned her name, but only drew up blanks.

But Peter just shook his head on the stand. “No,” he said, simply. “I mean, I didn’t know her at all before all of this.” He gestured around the courtroom. “Before today,” he elaborated. “But she said her birthday was on the 20th, that she just turned nineteen, and I thought, oh shi—oot, oh shoot, I also just had my birthday, and then I realized we were both Scorpios and…” He trailed off. “It’s kind of silly, I guess. I don’t even believe in horoscopes. But it was just, um, a thought I had, I guess? Yeah.” He winced.

Peter’s rambling gave Marie enough time to collect herself and murmur some meaningless reassurances. Rhee felt like someone had struck a spear through her chest. Was that where that phrase came from, ‘poleaxed’? Literally run through with an axe on a pole?

“Could you state your relationship to May Parker?” Marie asked.

“Yeah, sure,” said Peter. “She’s my…she was my aunt, and then she adopted me, so, legally I guess, she was my mother? But she was my aunt.”

Marie nodded encouragement. “And at the time of her death, was Ms. Parker was your sole legal guardian?”

“Yup. Yeah.”

“Did you live with her in August of this year?”

“Yeah.”

“And how long had you lived with her?”

“Ten years.” Peter’s voice was barely a whisper. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Ten years. She and Ben took me in after my parents died. Ben—that’s my Uncle Ben, my dad’s brother. They were married, him and May. And, um, Ben died about a year—actually about a year and half ago now. And then May adopted me. You know, just in case. That was finalized in July, right after the school year ended.”

Rhee ached at the bitter reminder of just how much tragedy this boy had been through.

“And where are you living now?”

“Um, I’m in foster care, I guess. I’ve been moving around a lot.” He shrugged, but the bitter set of his jaw belied any ease he felt at the situation.

Rhee couldn’t bear to keep looking at him, this boy she’d been failing for so long. She cast her gaze around the other people in the courtroom. The judge’s face was set in a grim mask. She obviously hadn’t known all this beforehand. The prosecution was passing notes between them on a legal pad, obviously pleased at the pitiful picture Peter was painting. Rhee felt sick. The lawyer for the defense gnawed on a pen, mouth set in a frown. Rhee forced her gaze back to Marie before she had to look at the defendant. She didn’t think she could bear whatever she saw there either.

“Thank you, Peter,” said Marie. “Do you wish to make a statement about your aunt, and how her death has impacted you?”

“Yes,” Peter bit off the word, much more certain than he’d been on any of the easy questions. “I do.”

Marie nodded. “The floor is yours.” She stepped back to sit on the bench next to Rhee, a few empty spaces over.

Peter trembled in his seat on the stand. He stared at some patch of carpet. “Okay,” he said, psyching himself up, too quiet to hear except for the microphone in front of his face. “Okay.”

But he didn’t say anything. He drew in breath after shaky breath, and said nothing. Rhee wanted to rush over to him, to hustle him out of this horrible room, but Peter had been so determined to speak, so set on it. And she wasn’t allowed to interrupt the proceedings.

The judge opened her mouth to say something, and Marie shifted out of her seat to approach Peter, but before either of them could do anything more, Peter broke the silence.

“May…May’s—she’s…May was the best person I ever met.” He nodded, gaze still glued to the carpet. “She was _everything_. And she was so, so good.”

He nodded to himself, took a steadying breath. “I was four when my parents died,” he said. He spoke slowly, deliberately, so different from his usual flustered babbling. “I don’t remember them very well. Sometimes I think I’ll have something—a glimpse, the feeling of arms around me, the smell of perfume, but I don’t know if that’s real or if it’s just my imagination wanting something of them to hold onto. But May? May was real, and solid, and—” His jaw set and he raised his head to look in Rhee and Marie’s general direction. His eyes were fathomless pits of dark anger, and Rhee fought the urge to quail in her seat, forced herself to straighten her back and look back at Peter. The only thing that allowed her to do so was that he wasn’t looking _at_ her, wasn’t aiming that terrible rage at her. “She _cared,”_ said Peter, an accusation. “She cared. So. Much.”

“Let me explain,” he said. “What I mean, when I say that she cared. It wasn’t just that she cared about me. Though she did. Like I said, my parents died in a plane crash. It was completely unexpected. May was twenty-one, just married to her high school sweetheart, going to nursing school and waitressing in the evenings. She was a kid. And she didn’t want kids. She never had. She barely knew me, and she wasn’t related to me at all. Not by blood. She hadn’t signed up to raised a traumatized four-year-old. But she never even _hesitated_. Ben told me, later, when I asked about it, that he’d been scared to take me in. That he didn’t know how to be a parent, and he was so worried that they would mess it up. That it would wreck his relationship with May, since she didn’t want kids, and certainly wouldn’t want a kid that wasn’t even hers. How horrible he felt for even having that thought. So he went to May, and do you know what she said?”

Peter smiled, a small, sad private thing, but warm. “She said, _Benjamin Harrison Parker, either we are taking in that kid in together or I am taking him in alone. And he will be loved. He. Will. Be. Loved_.” Rhee trembled at the thirdhand echo of May Parker’s fury.

“She said, _Do you know why? Because there is a child out there, a child who needs love, and I can love him. And I will_ choose _, every day of my life, every hour, every second, to love that child. Because I can. Because I have that power, to love him and to let him know he is loved, and if I do not act on that power, then I do not deserve to have it at all. This is_ my _choice, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, so either get on board or get out of my way. I choose to love him_.”

Peter exhaled, and the ghost of May Parker left his voice. That furious, determined love was still there, though, and that was all Peter. “She did. She loved me. Every day, every minute, every second.” His voice cracked, and he wiped away tears. “Not because she had to. She _chose_ to, and she kept choosing to. She kept choosing _me_.” His face was all wonder.

“I didn’t make it easy,” Peter admitted. “I was scared, traumatized, angry at losing my parents. I lashed out. I threw horrible tantrums. I broke her finger, once, when I was five. Ben was out of town. I hadn’t slept in days, too scared of the nightmares, and I hadn’t let May sleep either in all that time. May was trying to tuck me in, and I just lashed out with everything I had, and I broke her finger.”

He paused, breathing heavily, caught in the memory. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. But I did. I hurt her really badly. And then I started freaking out. I was only five and I didn’t understand that I could even _do_ that. I had—it probably started out as a panic attack, but it quickly turned to an asthma attack, and I couldn’t breathe. And you know what May did?”

Peter smiled, disbelief and fondness and love and sorrow. “She drove me to the hospital. She drove me to the hospital with an injured hand on no sleep, and she made sure I got treatment before she got her own finger set. I felt so guilty. Iknew, I just knew that she was going to give me up, and that I deserved it. I’d been so bad. I’d _hurt_ her. I couldn’t stop crying. But she came into the hospital room, and she smiled, and she said, _I love you_. _I choose to love you, and there’s nothing you can do to make me stop. Nothing. You’re not in trouble for hurting me, because that was an accident. You are in trouble for throwing a tantrum, because you know that’s not okay. But, Peter, I love you, and I will never stop loving you. This is my choice, and I choose to love you. Every time.”_

Peter wiped a few stray tears from his cheek, almost as an afterthought. “And she did. Every time. When I got super into electronics and blew up the toaster and started a fire that burned her wedding dress. She was furious, sure, and I got in all kinds of trouble, but you know what the first thing she shouted was? She said, _I love you. I am furious at you right now, but I love you_. When I came out, and started therapy that we really couldn’t afford, I was so scared, and ashamed, and just…I felt so undeserving of Ben and May standing by me. And May just said, _There is nothing you could do, nothing you could be, that would make me stop loving you_. _So don’t you dare blame yourself_.”

Rhee breathed out shakily, blinked away tears. She should not be jealous of child, of a client, of a young boy who’d lost everything. But she was. Rhee wished, desperately, in that place she thought she’d locked away, that she had had a May Parker growing up. And she hated herself for the weakness.

“I got bullied in middle school,” Peter was saying. “It started in elementary school, but middle school is where it got really bad. I was small, I was nerdy, I was _effeminate_ ”—he rolled his eyes at the word, then shrugged—“and kids are cruel. There was this one kid, C.J., who beat me up pretty bad. When May figured it out, she went on a rampage. She hounded my teachers, she yelled at the principal, but nothing really changed. So she tracked down C.J.’s parents. I don’t know exactly what happened there, what she saw, what she said. But C.J.’s bullying got worse after that.”

Rhee startled in her seat. That wasn’t how she’d expected the story to go.

“He was meaner. More targeted. And I got mad at May, because the way I saw it, it was all her fault that I was getting more hurt, because of whatever she said when she went to C.J.’s place. But then a few weeks later I was walking home from school and I saw C.J. curled up in this alley outside the school. I think it was probably because no one else from school was there, but we ended up talking, and it was kinda nice. He was just a person, you know? And towards the end, he asked me if it was true, what May had told him. And I was like, I have no idea what you’re talking about. And he said-”

Peter took a breath, steeled himself. “He said, first of all, your aunt called me a little shit.”

“Mr. Parker,” the judge interrupted, not exactly harshly, but not kindly either. “If you could keep your language to a standard befitting of the dignity of the court.”

Peter jumped in his seat. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, ma’am. Your honor. Judge. That’s what she said, but I’ll, um, yeah. Sorry. So first she told him- _that_ , and then apparently she told him that she would have my back if I defended myself and kicked him in the—um, private area, region.” Peter went tomato red, the judge’s reprimand obviously still clear in his mind. “And she said she’d drag him to the principal’s office herself if he hurt me again. But _then_ , after that, she told him that she wasn’t gonna hurt him. She wasn’t going to hate him. She told him she was gonna love him, whether he liked it or not. Not because he deserved it or anything, but because he was a _person_. And every person needs someone that loves them no matter what. She told him that if he ever needed someone to love him, she would be there. Because she could.”

“C.J. said she’d never seen someone so angry, but so calm. So certain and strong. That it was terrifying.” Peter snorted. “I could’ve told him _that_.”

Peter frowned, chewed his lip. “So C.J. asked me if that was true, what she said. And I hadn’t known any of this before, but I just knew as soon as he said it that yeah, _of course_ it was true. Because that’s just who May was. She was someone who saw people hurting and chose to go help them, chose to love them. If she saw someone hurt, it was like…” Peter struggled for words. “It was like she would wrap them up in a blanket of hugs and warmth, but also the blanket was covered in knives that would hurt anyone who dared touch them again.” The boy blushed. “That was a weird metaphor, sorry. But that’s the best I can put it.”

“C.J. and I never really became friends, but we kind of had a truce after that. That summer, he ran away from home and lived with us for about a month before moving out to Ohio to live with his half-brother. And his folks were arrested for child abuse. May was the one who hounded OCFS and the police to make sure the charges actually stuck. She was like that, you know, this mix of vengeful and forgiving.”

Peter nodded to himself. “Maybe it sounds weird, like those things couldn’t exist together in one person, but it made sense and it was so _May_. Because she _cared_ , she cared about every person she ever met, so if she learned of someone hurting someone else, she would do her damndest to make sure they’d never hurt anyone ever again. But she wasn’t malicious, or cruel. She didn’t exult in hurting people. Because that would go against everything she was. For May, it was always about how you chose to be. The _choices_ you made, because your choices are really the only things that you in your power, that you should be responsible for. And she would always choose love, and empathy, and forgiveness if she could. But if you _didn’t_ choose those things, if you _chose_ to hurt someone, she was merciless.”

Peter’s voice was growing hoarse, and his face was carefully expressionless. “I got Ben killed,” he said. “It was my fault. We’d had a fight, because I was being _stupid_ , and unreliable, and sneaking out. But we just had this huge blowout, and I needed some space, so I just—left. I _left_ , in the middle of the night in a pretty sketchy neighborhood, and I didn’t even think that Ben and May would be worried or might get hurt because of me.”

“But they did.” Peter’s eyes were far away. “They worried, and Ben went out looking for me, and I _saw_ the shooter. I saw him, before he killed Ben. And I could’ve done something. I had the chance. I had the choice. I could’ve—” Guilt clogged his words. “But I didn’t. I just _watched_ while he got killed because of me and he bled out in my arms because I was too slow to keep the blood in.”

 _God, no_ , Rhee wanted to hug this boy and tell him none of this was his fault.

Peter wrapped his arms around himself, rocked back and forth just a little. “I thought that was it. I thought that would be when May finally realized that I—” his voice broke, and he choked back a sob. “That all I do is hurt people, and cause them to get hurt, and I’m not worth loving, or _saving_ , or whatever it is. Because she loved Ben. They were so deeply in love, even after being married for so long. Ben was…everything that May ever wanted or needed, he was the best person you’d ever meet. And I _took_ that from her. I took his life away. Forever.” Barely audible, even with the mic, Peter whispered, “I killed him.”

Peter had stilled. “I thought she would hate me,” he said. “I thought that she would finally-” His jaw clenched, and he hissed out an exhale of air. “But she didn’t. She didn’t—”

He had to take a longer break to choke back the sobs this time, one hand pressed tight against his trembling mouth. “She didn’t even blame me. She said that running away was normal and understandable, and I could be in trouble for that, but not for Ben. That I hadn’t chosen to get him killed, that what I did didn’t make me any less—” A high-pitched, distressed sound escaped his lips. “Even when I told her. Even when I told her that I could’ve stopped it, that I could’ve—” He cut himself off this time, shook his head, red-rimmed eyes distant and lost. “She still loved me. She still chose to love me, even though I’d taken _everything_ from her.”

In his lap, he’d clasped his hands together, as if he were praying. Even from her seat on the bench, Rhee could see he was gripping tight enough to cut off the blood flow from his fingertips. His hands were shaking. “I-I-I—He—Spider-Man. Spider-Man caught him. The shooter. It was easy. For Spider-Man. He left him webbed up outside the police station. Not even a scratch. No bruises. Just—fine and dandy. Walking around. And I didn’t know if that—I wanted so badly, I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to kill him.” He spit out the words like they were physical things.

Peter drooped in his chair, exhausted. “I asked May,” he said. “I asked May if—if she were Spider-Man, would she have-? _Should_ she have-? I wanted so badly to hurt him. For him to be hurt like we had been hurt.”

He closed his eyes. “And May,” he breathed out. “May thought about it. For a long time. And she told me that— _no_. That even for all the bad he’d done, it wouldn’t be worth it for us to go down after him, to follow evil with evil, meanness with meanness, hurt with hurt.”

“She said, let him go to jail, the justice system can do whatever it does. She said she was _proud_ of Spider-Man, that he hadn’t—hadn’t hurt him. She said, Spider-Man had a choice in that moment, and he could’ve chosen to be a killer and inflict more pain on the world, and probably no one would blame him for it. He could’ve kicked someone when they were already down, could have kept beating on someone he’d already subdued. And because that guy was a bad guy, because he was a killer, no one would really care. But that’s not how it should be. We need to be _better_ than that. We need to choose to be better, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts. And that’s why she was proud. Because Spider-Man chose—chose _life_ , and chose the possibility of redemption. She said, that was the right choice. Even though it hurt, even though it felt like eating broken glass whenever she thought about it.”

“She said, _I can’t love him. I don’t have that in me. But I don’t have to hate him. I don’t have to hold on to hatred and cruelty. So I’m not going to_. She said, _I hope he learns how to love and be loved, that man who killed my Ben. Because then he will know the pain he has inflicted, and he will have to dedicate himself to learning how not to inflict any more pain like that upon the world. That’s the only way it stops, this terrible pain. That’s the only way. Is if we choose to stop it_.”

“So, yeah,” Peter said. “That’s who May was. That’s how I know-” He took a breath, steeled himself, and turned his head to face Ms. Namdakova. The girl was staring back at him, and Rhee couldn’t bear to look at her face. “That’s how I know that if she were here, she wouldn’t hate you, Sasha.”

Peter was crying, not the sobs he’d tried to muffle earlier, but a steady and silent stream of tears running down his face. His voice was gentle. Something in Rhee _broke_ at that tenderness, at the softness in his eyes that somehow the world hadn’t sanded away.

“She wouldn’t hate you, and she wouldn’t think you’re a monster, and she wouldn’t think you’re irredeemable. She would think you’re a _person_ , and you deserve to be loved. And she would be so, so sad that she couldn’t be the one to do it. She would say you didn’t choose to kill her, so that’s not on you. Because you don’t have a choice, when there’s something coming at you and you push away. That’s just instinct. You weren’t trying to hurt.” There was a revelation, a lightness, a certainty in his voice, and Rhee for the life of her couldn’t tell what it was about.

“And she would’ve been _so proud,_ ” Peter continued. “That when you did have a choice, you chose to help. Because that’s what you did. So, thank you.”

For a long moment, the two of them stared at each other: two children who had seen too much, who had been hurt too long, who had held a dying body and tried in vain to keep the blood from soaking through their fingers.

Slowly, Peter nodded at her and turned away. Faced the prosecutors. “And she also would have been angry,” he said. “She would have been furious that you chose to go after someone who had already pled guilty, someone who was already down, and kept beating. For what? To get a slightly longer sentence? For kicks and giggles? To perpetuate the idea that if someone says they’ve been abused, that means they’re lying? May would’ve been ashamed of you. Ashamed that you did it in the name of justice. Because that’s not what justice is. That’s just choosing to hurt.”

“So…yeah.” Peter finished his speech rather anticlimactically. “That’s what I wanted to say, I guess.”

The courtroom was silent. Rhee could hear the ticking of the analog clock on the wall behind the judge.

Marie swallowed on the bench next to Rhee, then startled as she realized that was her cue. She smoothed her skirt once again and stood. “Thank you, Peter. That was very moving.” She was flustered, but earnest. It was kind of endearing. “That’s all from us, your honor. Does the defense have any questions?”

They did not.

In front of her, Rhee could feel the tension in the prosecution’s team as they passed notes back and forth. Rhee was suddenly _very_ glad that they didn’t get to question the boy. Only the defense and the judge got to do that for victim impact statements.

The judge was studying Peter, face creased in a frown. “What would you recommend, young man?” she asked. “As an appropriate sentence.”

“Me?” Peter hunched down in his seat. “Um-” His eyes darted around the room and he opened and closed his mouth a few times, obviously unprepared to answer. “I guess…um, she didn’t _choose_ to kill anyone, so it doesn’t feel right, really, to completely ruin someone’s life when it was a mistake and she wasn’t going out trying to kill people. But, um, she did break into the apartment? Even though I kind of left the window open, which is basically an invitation. But stealing is wrong?” He sounded much more uncertain of that than he should be. “So I guess whatever the sentence would be for breaking into someone’s place? Because that’s the only thing really that she chose to do.” He bit his lip. “Yeah, I guess…that, your honor. Whatever the sentence is for that.”

The judge gave him an unfathomable look before excusing him from the stand, and sending them all away for a brief recess while she made her decision.

She took almost half an hour before calling them back in to announce the sentence. Twenty years, with the possibility of parole after fifteen. All charges to be served concurrently.

Almost against her will, Rhee did the math in her head. Alexandra Namdakova would only be thirty-four if she got out as early as possible, and would have spent almost half of her life in prison. That was…Jesus, that was only a few years older than Rhee herself. The kid could still have a life. Just like Rhee could still have a life.

So why did everything feel like a goddamn tragedy?

* * *

The Caldwells picked Peter up from the courthouse. Rhee sent him off and sat down on the steps outside the building, staring into nothing.

“Hey.” The voice came from behind her.

Rhee briefly glanced up as Marie Takahashi sat down next to her, but didn’t acknowledge the young lawyer in any other way.

Marie seemed content to just sit there in silence, and Rhee didn’t have the energy to make her go away.

It was cold. No snow yet, but the wind was fucking brutal. Sunset was at like 4:00pm these days, so the outside matched her mood. Rhee watched some crinkled up brown leaves get caught in the wind.

“How do you do it?” Marie was hunched over against the wind, hands curled up against her mouth for warmth.

Rhee sighed. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Marie nodded and closed her eyes. “Everything, I guess. I’m new, I know. But I’ve been doing this eight months now, plus an externship while I was in school, and…I’m not the baby any more. Turnover’s a fucking nightmare. I have _trainees_ , Rhee. I supervise interns. How the fuck am I supposed to-?”

She cut herself off, shook her head. “They think I’m gonna be in it for the long haul. And…I want to be, I think. I’ve wanted to do this job since I was seven. I had a good lawyer, you know?”

Rhee nodded. She knew.

“But how do you _do_ it? The people who stay, either they’re so numb they don’t give a shit anymore, or they’re so burnt out they’re barely functioning. But some people manage it. God fucking knows how, but they do. And I need to know the secret, for when things hit too close to home or you realize you’re just a bandaid slapped on a slit throat or…” She shook her head. “I’ve had objectively rougher cases, you know? But that in there today? It was just…the system’s fucked, and I _know_ that, right? But I’m part of that system, and I want to be doing good and I think I _am_ , most of the time, but I just don’t know how to-” She exhaled, giving up on words, and her breath puffed out in front of her.

“I’ve only been doing this four years,” Rhee finally said.

Marie gave her a half-hearted grin. “That makes you an old-timer in our line of work, old-timer.”

“Watch it, pipsqueak,” Rhee shot back, but her heart wasn’t in it. She ran a hand over her buzzed scalp, thinking. “You learn to compartmentalize. You learn…coping mechanisms. Some of them are healthier than others. Sometimes you have bad days, and either you push through it or you don’t.” Rhee paused, tracking her favorite crumpled leaf’s path across the asphalt. “Today was a bad day,” she said.

Marie hummed, acknowledging her words. “What are your coping mechanisms? Any recommendations?”

“Alcohol,” said Rhee, twisting the word into a joke with a wry grin. “That’s not a recommendation. An anti-recommendation, if you will. But I don’t drink on the job. That’s a hard line, and if I crossed it…” She shook her head. “On the clock? I set timers.”

“Timers?” asked Marie.

“Yeah, it was the doc’s idea.” Rhee flushed when she realized Marie had no way of knowing who ‘the doc’ was. “Prathima Vishwakarma. She is— _was_ my mentor, when I first came into this. Child psychologist. And psychiatrist. Hell of a woman. God, I wish I could sic her on Peter.”

Marie perked up. “She was good?”

Rhee rolled her eyes. “‘Good.’” She snorted. “She was the best in the business.” Rhee hesitated, wondering how much of her own story to tell Marie. _Ah, fuck it_. “My childhood wasn’t exactly sunshine and roses. I dropped out of high school, had some family stuff, got my GED, decided to get into social work. Finished that degree when I was twenty-two, moved here from Jackson. Fresh start, you know? Away from anybody who knew me or knew my trauma. Well, the doc spent ten minutes with me—while interviewing my client, mind you—and it was like she had the bible to my life.”

“Damn.”

Rhee nodded. “She said, Rhee, you’re black, you’re queer, and you’ve gone through a shitton of childhood trauma. So, from one traumatized brown dyke to another: this business is gonna be rough for you. If you’re in it for the long haul, you’ve gotta cut yourself out some time and _respect_ that time you’ve cut out, and then you’ve gotta push through. So that’s where the timers come from. I can hold it together as long as I need for my clients, and then afterwards, I set a timer. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, depends on how bad it is. And I just let myself scream. I let myself feel all the hurt I’ve been pushing down. And most times, it’s enough to keep going.”

Marie smiled. “She does sound like one hell of a woman. I would’ve liked to meet her. Always nice to meet another member of the childhood trauma queer ladies club. I know I’m not exactly brown, but-”

“Eh.” Rhee shrugged. “You’re not white. Close enough. And I can introduce you, if you want.”

“Oh.” Marie’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, I’d love that. Sorry, for some reason I thought she was…” She trailed off.

“Just retired,” said Rhee. “Out of the game. She lives in this real fancy place in Harlem with her wife. It’s disgustingly idyllic. I’m going to stay with them a few days next week, while I’m taking my PTO.”

A grin stretched over Marie’s face. “You’re going on vacation with your adopted lesbian moms next week?”

“No.” Rhee scowled. “Yes.” She ignored Marie’s stifled giggle. “Prathi’s big on carving out time to take care of yourself, setting boundaries, all that. So she makes sure I spend at least two weeks every year completely outside of work. I’ve been kind of pushing it off this year, but I don’t want to take the actual holidays off. Figure I can take the shift of someone who actually celebrates Christmas or whatever, especially since things get a bit messy around then.”

“That’s sweet.” There was no hint of mockery in Marie’s voice, and Rhee found herself flushing a bit at the compliment. “I should be heading home now, but I hope you have a really restful vacation. And if I don’t see you before then, I’m sure we’ll meet up sometime over the holiday shift. Take care of yourself, Rhee, yeah? Stay warm.”

Rhee nodded and genuinely smiled back at the young lawyer. “You too. Stay warm.”

Even though she’d been sitting outside in below-freezing weather for at least forty minutes, Rhee felt warm inside all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use he/him pronouns and the name Peter to refer to tiny baby Peter even though he hadn’t come out yet, because I don’t want to deadname or misgender the kid and also I thought that was how Peter would refer to himself/remember it. Not actually sure how that would affect testimony in real court and whether it would be seen as "lying", but because this testimony isn't used to establish any facts and is more about the emotional impact on Peter, I think it should be fine legally speaking (?). The victim impact statement is supposed to focus more on the impact on Peter (e.g., how his life has changed, trauma, nightmares, etc.) rather than his rambling thoughts about May, but I think that most judges would be pretty lenient here in what they allow Peter to say, as long as it's related to May and he's not attacking Sasha or the court (especially because he's a minor).
> 
> (Also please ignore that under the New York's criminal procedure law, Peter would have had to give his statement before Sasha, so that the defense has the opportunity to rebut anything he said. I am generally trying to be pretty legally/procedurally accurate for how the NYC foster and legal systems work, but I'm sure I'll make plenty of mistakes and sometimes you have to bend the rules for narrative purposes)


	14. I-13. Of Bullets and Brothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter visits his old foster-siblings. Spider-Man gets shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a (slightly) lighter Spider-Man chapter!! Including action and good kids doing their best to be there for each other. Thank you so much everyone for all of the kudos and bookmarks and especially the comments!! The feedback from the last two chapters was especially touching, and I am so honored that y’all are taking the time to read this and that it resonates with so many people <3
> 
> TW in this chapter for child neglect, food insecurity, gunshot wounds, police brutality, claustrophobia, beginnings of a potential flashback/panic attack, impromptu bathtub surgery (slight gore)

After May’s hearing, it was like some block had broken within Peter. It was time to return to Spider-Man.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. In classic Parker luck, his first night back was an unmitigated disaster.

The Caldwells were much more attentive than the Fosters, and they took their apartment security very seriously. Peter had his own room, but all the windows in the apartment had iron bars on them to prevent burglaries. That meant the only ways out of the apartment were the front door and the entrance to the backyard, which was accessed through a sliding glass door in the Caldwells’ bedroom. No fire escape, since the building was only two floors tall. Sneaking through the Caldwell’s bedroom while they slept was not an option, and there was an alarm on the front door that he needed to disable before leaving. That shouldn’t have been too much a problem; after all, they’d given Peter the code when he moved in. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing was easy in Peter’s life. Classic Parker luck.

The Caldwells’ place was only twenty minutes or so walk from Ned’s new place, so Peter went dumpster-diving and thrift store shopping, and scrounged up enough materials for a new suit and sewed it together at Ned’s. He left it there, wary of being caught in the Caldwells’ in the suit.

A few days after the hearing, Peter was ready to back on patrol. He’d start by visiting Jason, of course, and then return to what had been his original route. It was nice to be back in Queens. Peter felt more settled than he had in a long time.

On Friday night, December 4th, Peter waited until everyone else had fallen asleep and then slipped out the front door. He made his way to Ned’s no problem to change out, and then Spider-Man made his return. Ned had been out of school most of the week with the flu, though he was feeling mostly better now, and they did their handshake in the air instead of actually touching, just in case. Peter had a pretty good immune system now that he was enhanced, but he was pretty sure he could still be a carrier of something nasty.

Patrol went well. Jason was conscious, for starters. Peter watched the hospital room through the fogged-up glass. He wasn’t in great shape, but he was sitting up in his hospital bed and talking—talking actual words that made sense, even though his speech was slurred—with the pretty woman Peter had decided was his sister. Peter smiled through the chill and went out into the night.

It was a quiet patrol. A cold snap had come in, and no one really wanted to be outside unless they desperately had to be. Peter stopped an attempted mugging, helped a teen who’d fallen off her bike limp home, talked to a few homeless folks and was unsuccessful in convincing any of them to go to a shelter, and dealt with a super shady situation between a dealer and a girl Peter thought was probably his own age. The girl had cussed him out and bolted, and Peter couldn’t follow her and web up the dealer, so he let her go. He felt bad about it, though. He hoped she had somewhere safe to go.

It wasn’t a great night, but it was standard Spider-Man. It felt right, like coming home.

Around midnight, Peter swung himself into Manhattan and made his way over to Midtown. The school was easy to break into; there was a window on the third floor chemistry lab that couldn’t lock and didn’t trigger any alarms. There, Peter changed back into his civvies, cursing the frigid air and the fact that the heat in this building wasn’t kept on at night. He grabbed the rice and beans MJ had made from his locker. There were ice packs above and below it to keep it cool, and Peter slipped these back into MJ’s locker. She was truly a godsend.

He would have to tell her how great she was in the morning: she wasn’t on his bluetooth comms tonight, probably grateful to actually be able to get a full night’s sleep. Ned had also gone to sleep when Peter crossed into Manhattan, on the promise that Peter would text him when he got home.

He took the food and walked to the Fosters’. It wasn’t far to Murray Hill, and Peter made sure he wasn’t being watched before he made a superhuman jump up to the fire escape. He could have just climbed the wall up to the twelfth floor, but he wasn’t under the mask and wanted to have some kind of plausible deniability.

He tapped softly on Lily and Elliot’s window. Elliot was still awake, and bolted up with a grin and opened the window for Peter to slide in before shaking his sister awake. The four-year-old woke silently, but muffled a squeal when she saw Peter closing the window against the cold and sitting himself down on the floor. He grinned apologetically and waved at her, and she threw herself onto his lap from the bed.

“Ooph.” Peter laughed quietly. “You’re getting so big, Lily. You musta grown a full foot since I last saw you.” He demonstrated how big a foot was with his hands as Elliot slipped out of the room to get the others.

She giggled. “Silly, Peter.” Except she couldn’t say her l’s or her r’s, so it came out more ‘Siwwy Pedah.’

Peter grinned and tousled her hair, surreptitiously checking her over. She was skinny, but he thought it was normal kid-skinny, and her eyes were bright and happy.

Elliot returned with Madison and Jada. Madison was yawning, and Peter felt bad for waking all the littles up so late. But this was the only time that he could get to them without anyone noticing. God, that sounded creepy.

Besides, this was when they’d eaten when he was living in the house, so really he was doing a good thing by keeping up the same routine. Routine was important for kids; he’d learned that when researching how to be a good foster brother.

 _It would be better if you told Ms. Rhee that these kids need better parents_ , a voice whispered in his head. He brushed it away. He had reasons for not reporting them, and they made sense. Elliot couldn’t be separated from Lily again, and neither should Madison and Jada, who weren’t related by blood but were as close as any two people Peter’d ever met. And they weren’t being outright abused. Besides, Peter made sure they had everything they needed. He could just about afford the extra supplies and food after paying for his HRT, as long as tips from the diner were good. So far, they had been good.

Quickly, he set the food out, and the kids dug in.

If Lily had thrown herself onto him, Madison did the exact opposite, almost hiding behind Elliot and glaring suspiciously at Peter. He’d tried not to feel hurt by that. She was only six, and he’d been gone for a long time. She’d also been in three times as many homes as Peter, albeit over the course of a few more years. She was used to people not being reliable.

So Peter let Madison be her little distrustful self. Instead, he smiled at Jada. “I like your hair,” he told her. Her short hair, which they’d normally just let do its own thing, was done up in a bunch of Bantu knots. “It looks very pretty. Like a princess.”

Jada beamed and tucked her head into Madison’s shoulder. Tapped her arm excitedly and pointed to Peter. Jada had Down Syndrome and had trouble talking sometimes, but Madison always seemed to know what she wanted to say.

Madison scowled, but held Jada’s hand and spoke. “That girl did them. The one who came instead of you.”

Peter brightened up. “MJ? I didn’t know she knew how to do that.”

Madison just stared at him, but Elliot nodded and said, “She said her mom used to do her hair like that when she was little. Lily and Madison wanted hair like that too, but MJ said their hair wasn’t curly enough, so they could have a big braid instead.”

Lily pouted, obviously not happy to be reminded that she couldn’t have the hairstyle she wanted. She stuffed a handful of rice and beans in her mouth and said, “I wanna pin-cess cown head.”

Peter smiled at her and gently chucked her chin. “Princesses keep their mouths closed when they chew, Lil-Bill.” He pretended to think. “I can’t do hair as well as MJ, but I could probably do one big princess braid for you if you want. Like Rapunzel. And for you, Mads.”

Lily, of course, was very excited about this and got beans all over her hair in her joy. Madison just shrunk back and shook her head.

Peter sighed, and turned to cleaning Lily’s hands of bean residue. And her hair. And her face. And everywhere else.

He ended up staying with the kids for nearly an hour. He braided Lily’s hair. And Elliot’s, which was getting long enough to do cool things with. Elliot asked him to take it out before he went to bed though. It wasn’t cool for boys to go to elementary school with girly hair. He also helped Elliot with his math homework, which he’d been having trouble with, and Jada showed him a picture she’d drawn of the new puppy that had moved in with the people in apartment 11C.

The kids seemed mostly okay, which was good. It had been almost two weeks since Peter had been transferred out of the house and he’d worried, even though he knew MJ was keeping an eye out. The main thing Peter flagged was that Jada and Madison both needed a bath; Elliot was pretty good at keeping himself and his sister clean, but neither of the middle girls liked baths and that was too much of a fight to expect Elliot to take on. It also wasn’t a fight that Peter felt like he could take on his first night back, so he did the best he could with baby wipes for Jada and gave Madison her own pack of baby wipes before he tucked all the kids back into bed. Well, all of the kids except for Madison, who still refused to come near him or talk to him unless she was translating for Jada.

All in all, a successful patrol. Peter changed back into his suit at school so that he could swing back to Queens instead of taking the subway. Just before he got to Ned’s to change into normal clothes _again_ (he really needed a better system because wow, he was spending a lot of time changing clothes), he heard a muffled curse and the distinctive sound of flesh on brick from a nearby alleyway.

Moving quietly, he crawled up the wall to see what was going on. There were five people there, four of them masked and standing above a fifth, who was slumped on the ground and curled in a ball to try and keep their head safe from the vicious round of kicks the figures over them were doling out.

Peter took a second to calculate his angles, and then-

 _Thwip_. _Thwip_. Two of the thugs were plastered to the wall with webs. The other two immediately turned to face him, but Peter was already moving, leaping across the alley and sending another volley of webs out. _Thwip_. Three down.

“Hey guys,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your little shindig, but it seemed like your teams were pretty unevenly matched and you could use another player.”

His spidey-sense screamed at him to move, and Peter dropped without thinking. A burst of noise from the end of the alleyway, and oh _shit_ , guy number four had a gun.

Peter landed in a roll and sprung up onto the wall, avoiding another burst of gunfire. He sent a web to yoink the gun, but one of the guys webbed to the wall by his wrist had _also_ produced a gun from somewhere, and Peter instead found himself desperately dodging gunfire from two, nope, _three_ active shooters. _Shit shit shit shit shit shit_.

“It’s not nice to shoot at random strangers!” Peter yelled. “At least buy me a drink first.”

There was a burst of blue light and a smell like burning hair, and somehow one of the webbed-up criminals was now _un_ -webbed up, and yup—that one also had a gun. Person on ground groaned and hoisted themselves up against the wall, and one of the shooters turned to point the gun at them. Peter caught a glimpse of the man’s face as he twisted, and fuck if it wasn’t familiar. Peter was sure he’d seen the guy before, but he couldn’t place where. Familiar guy curled his finger around the trigger.

Peter _moved_ , a jump towards the gunfire, one hand shooting a web at the roof of the building at back of the alleyway, the other reaching down to scoop up the person on the ground. He hugged them to his side and _pulled_ on his web, making it retract and pull him up like a grappling hook straight out of Batman—man, it had been a great idea to build that mechanic into his webshooters. He and his passenger swished up through the air, guns swinging around to point after them.

A sharp alarm from Peter’s spidey-sense told him to _move_ , to drop or change course, but he couldn’t do that with his passenger, and— _fuck_. A red-hot pain thrust him forward and he fumbled the landing onto the roof, dropping the person as he fell.

They skidded and bounced on the rooftop, but landed relatively unharmed. Peter jumped up, adrenaline coursing through him and grabbed their hand. His shoulder spasmed and he gasped in pain, hunching over. His other hand automatically went to his shoulder, and—Wet. Blood. He’d been shot. _Shit_.

The guys in the alley were yelling and moving, obviously not done chasing them.

“Can you walk?” Peter gasped.

The figure nodded, and stumbled after him.

Peter ran for the rooftop access door. It was locked, but _fuck_ that. Peter just tore out the handle and forced it open. He pushed his passenger inside. “Give me your jacket,” he said. “I have a plan.”

They moved to do so, wide-eyed, and stripped out of their jacket, fishing their wallet and keys out as they did so. They were still bundled from head-to-toe in winter gear: hat and scarf and sweater. Peter hoped those layers had helped shield them from those vicious kicks.

“Stay out of sight, call 911, I’ll lead them off,” he said.

They grabbed his arm in two wool-wrapped gloves. “They’re cops. Off duty,” they said.

Peter blinked. “Oh shit.” _That_ was where he’d seen that guy before: he’d tried to arrest Spider-Man once, months ago, when he’d first started out. Well, they weren’t wearing uniforms, they’d been beating up a person who couldn’t fight back, and they were shooting at him. The plan didn’t change.

“Um, don’t call 911 then?” Peter tried. “Do you have somewhere you can go? I’m gonna try to lead them away.”

Dazed, they nodded. “Be careful, Spidey. Stay safe.”

Peter grinned beneath the mask and shut the roof access door. He crinkled the metal to jam it in place. Now he just needed to make sure that the shooters wouldn’t be coming through the front door.

He webbed up his injury. He’d been shot in the back, on his shoulder, and he had a hole in his front, so he was pretty sure it was a through-and-through. It was awkward to web up his back; he couldn’t get the angle quite right, so he ended up just covering his entire back in layers and layers of webbing until he was sure the wound was stopped up. He stuck the jacket to the mass of webbing, then added some more webs around his front that could probably pass for arms or legs in the dark. He ran back towards the alley.

All four cops were still there, and they had all cut themselves free from Peter’s webbing with that weird blue laser thing. They all held their guns at the ready.

“Hey!” Peter shouted, running across the rooftops towards the mouth of the alley. “I worked hard to web you guys up. It’s like you don’t even appreciate all the effort I put in.”

He threw himself into the main street, already shooting a web from his good hand to catch him in a swing.

The shooters cursed and ran after him. Peter caught enough to know that his decoy victim had fooled them, at least for the moment.

Webbing one-handed was very not fun, and shit, now that he had a moment to feel, his arm was on fire and he was getting all kinds of dizzy. While he could normally take on a few gunmen no problem, this was not ideal.

He swung around a corner and let himself drop to his feet, stumbling into a different alleyway. He ducked behind a dumpster and tried to slow his breathing. He’d been shot. Okay. That was fine. He’d been shot before. Like, only once. Or twice. And May had patched him up both times. But still. He could handle this.

Ugh, the world was spinning. He slumped up against the wall.

He heard the sounds of footsteps, hissed whispers in the street. _Please don’t find me_. His breath fogged up in front of him.

But of course, Peter had no such luck. Twenty seconds later, at a sharp prod from his spidey-sense, he was up and swinging again, doing his best to ditch his pursuers.

He dodged and zig-zagged, weaving through streets and alleyways, avoiding bullets at every turn. But it was late, and he was tired, and he was almost out of web fluid, and he stumbled into a wall at the prodding of a few sharp _pops_ into his back.

He’d been shot again, he thought, though it didn’t hurt nearly as much this time. That was worrisome.

Peter skidded across asphalt, a few more hits pushing him down, but he couldn’t stop moving, so he kept running, launched his body around corners, out of sight, and—sewer grate! Perfect. He twisted the thing open and threw himself down the ladder, popping it closed behind him. Unless these guys had super-strength, it would take them a really long time and special tools to open the thing. And that was if they even knew where he went.

Peter went silent, listening for footsteps or voices above. It was dark, and the only sounds were the sewage water below and Peter’s own rough breathing echoing in his head. It was dark, and he was underground, and his shoulder was on fire. The same shoulder he’d dislocated on the day Jason— _shit_. This was not good.

“You’re not there,” Peter whispered to himself. “You’re not there, you’re not there, you’re not there. You saved the person. You’re gonna get out. Everything’s fine. You’re gonna be fine.”

The street above had quieted down, the off-duty cops probably gone, but he should stay hiding out until he was sure. Easier said than done, when he was on the brink of a panic attack. “You’re not there. You’re not there. You’re not there.”

Cautiously, he felt at his wounds. He was sure he’d been shot again, but honestly had no idea where. He was so numb and bruised it all blended together into one solid mass of hurt. Except for his shoulder. His shoulder was a massive black hole of hurt. He pawed at his back, where the shots had hit him, and…was that a bullet embedded _in_ his impromptu web dummy bandages? Huh.

He dropped his hand and slung his arm through the ladder, leaning against it to support his weight.

It was dark. And claustrophobic. It stank, his head spun with the stench and the blood loss, and he hurt. _You’re not there, you’re not there, you’re not there_.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, tried to ground himself, but _fuck_ , it hurt to be in his body, and he gasped in pain, trying to stifle down a scream, and once he’d messed up his breathing, he couldn’t get it right again and _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_.

 _I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me_. Peter stopped. His breath stuttered. He didn’t know when the mantra in his head had morphed into Chirrut Imwe’s, into Sasha’s—and _fuck_ , Sasha. He’d forgotten about her. With the running for his life and everything.

Suddenly, he wasn’t panicking anymore. He was just sad. And empty.

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.” Peter whispered the words into the dank, frozen air.

He wiped his cheek, grinding the wetness and grime into his mask.

“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me.” This time he actually voiced the words, air ghosting over his vocal chords.

Peter nodded. His chest ached, beyond the wounds and bruises that had to be littering his torso. He wasn’t alone. He turned his bluetooth earpiece back on, and called Ned.

* * *

“Are you _sure_ I shouldn’t call MJ? Or an ambulance? Or, like, literally anyone?” Ned was freaking out in his bathroom, where he’d pulled out Peter’s very well-stocked first aid kit, which Peter’d left at Ned’s so he didn’t have to carry it around from house to house. Peter sat in the bathtub, still covered in grime and web and sewer stink and blood.

Peter winced at his friend’s distress, but held firm. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said. “Even if I weren’t sneaking out and also Spider-Man, those guys were _cops_. They’ll be searching the hospitals for me.”

Ned nodded, pale. “What do you need?”

“Um, I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know. Just…keep talking. Please? About anything. You don’t have to look.”

Ned sat down on the toilet lid, facing away from Peter, and chattered away about nothing.

Peter poked around in the medkit. It wasn’t even his kit, not really. It was May’s. Ever since she’d found out he was Spider-Man, May had been there insisting that he let her patch him up. Even when he wasn’t even injured. Or when the bruises would fade in a few hours.

Now he just hoped he remembered how she’d fixed him up when he’d gotten shot. And be able to do it again. To himself. Because Ned might be a bastion of emotional and technical support, but blood he could not deal with. Yeah, this should be easy-peazy, lemon-squeezy.

Peter felt way better than he should have for the amount of times he’d been shot. He did not feel _great_ , sure, or even _good_ , or even…well, he felt better than he had in the alley or the sewer, so that meant he was probably already healing, right?

Carefully, he stripped off his little bootie-sock things, and then cut away the bottom half of his suit. It was covered in blood and ripped to shreds, not salvageable. Again. God, he should really make these things in bulk. At least he was getting better at sewing?

He said so to Ned, and got a shaky laugh back in response.

Peter’s legs were good. Bruised, scraped, a bit shaky, but good. They’d be right as rain in a few hours. His head was good too, besides the headache. And the dizziness. And the ringing in his ears. He was pretty sure those were all side effects of being shot at? Like, shock, maybe? Or too loud from the super-hearing?

No, that couldn’t be right. He was wearing his ear plugs. He loved his ear-plugs. They stopped all the noise. Except the noise he wanted. He and Ned had designed them together, made them almost invisible. He loved his earplugs like he loved his goggles, and his suit, and his backpack, and…woah, headrush. Black spots blinked in his vision.

Peter blinked back at them.

He checked himself again for a head wound, found nothing. That was good. Just blood loss, then.

Ned made him drink some water and eat a snack, and Peter lay down in the bath, let the water from the faucet mix with red and drain a gentle pink. He began to feel more solid as the minutes passed by.

Slowly, using his web dissolvent and the kitchen scissors, he removed the webbing from the front of his torso and cut away his shirt. He removed the covering carefully, piece by piece, washing each inch of revealed skin and checking for wounds by sight and by touch. He was a bit banged up, bruised and scraped, but those were already fading. The only open wound on his front was his shoulder.

He’d been running away, and so had only been shot in the back. No more exit wounds on his front meant there were probably bullets still stuck inside him. Fun.

Peter prepared gauze and bandages for his shoulder wound before he peeled off the webbing. To his surprise, the bullet hole wasn’t bleeding all that badly, already beginning to heal. He taped several layers of gauze down tight, but didn’t bandage it up yet. It was too awkward with his back still covered in webs.

His back, he needed Ned’s help for. Slowly, Peter walked him through the process. In some sort of miracle, Ned only fainted _after_ all the work was done, and he came to in a few seconds, shaky but okay.

It turned out that only one bullet had actually made its way into Peter, that first one that had gone through his shoulder. He was bruised to all hell and hurt like a bitch, but there were seven bullets embedded in his webbing and marks where more had bounced off. The webs had absorbed the brunt of the impact, leaving Peter relatively intact.

“Huh,” said Peter, fingering the soon-to-be-dissolved webbing in his hands. This could be useful. This could be very useful.

* * *

He finally limped back to the Caldwells’ around 4:00am, after a quick nap at Ned’s. His shoulder ached and he was sore everywhere, but he was fine. He could already feel his healing kicking in.

Everything was quiet, but as he closed the door behind him his spidey-sense started tingling. He froze, listening intently. There was quiet, sleep breathing coming from Zach and Simon’s rooms. But from the Caldwells’ room…nothing. Instead, now that Peter was listening for it, there were two sets of breaths coming from Peter’s own room. Awake breaths. All the lights were off, though, so the Caldwells didn’t want Peter to know that they were there. _He’d been caught._

Peter catalogued his options. He could go back out, sleep at Ned’s. But then he’d still be in trouble whenever he eventually came back. And they might make him see Rhee, or a doctor, and then they’d see that he’d been shot, and then he wouldn’t be able to explain why he healed so fast, and then he’d be arrested for being a mutant even though he wasn’t a mutant, and then they’d figure out he was Spider-Man, and then they’d double-arrest him for being a vigilante, and then they’d make an army of super-soldiers out of his blood and it would be the worst thing ever.

He couldn’t let that happen. Best to face the music. Maybe avoid this getting back to Ms. Rhee and especially the judge. Also best to pretend that he didn’t have super senses that let him know he was caught.

He texted Ned— _home safe, feeling fine, but i think im busted :(_ —reset the alarm, and clicked the deadbolt into place. At least the Caldwells hadn’t locked him out? And he wasn’t _visibly_ injured, or in uniform. So the only thing they had on him was that he’d snuck out.

Heart beating wildly, he forced himself to walk casually towards his room. He opened the door, flicked on the lights, and didn’t even have to pretend to jump at the sight that awaited him. His room was empty—completely empty, except for the Caldwells themselves, sitting on his stripped-down mattress.

“Peter,” said Mr. Caldwell, voice cold.


	15. I-14. The Caldwells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets in trouble with the Caldwells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who thought the Caldwells were bad news, congratulations, you were right! Here is your prize: more trauma and whump.
> 
> TW for child abuse, emotional abuse, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, forced isolation, taking away all of your kid’s stuff as “discipline” (not sure exactly what kind of abuse that is, but it’s definitely abuse)

Peter flinched back a bit at Mr. Caldwell’s tone, tried to bite down panic. “What—what’d you do with all my stuff?” He didn’t have all that much stuff, only what would fit in one duffel bag plus his school supplies and textbooks, but there was _nothing_ in here any more. No desk, no bureau, no decorations. Not even sheets. Just the bedframe and mattress.

“Peter,” said Mrs. Caldwell, cutting, “that’s hardly the way to talk to the people who took you in. _Especially_ when you just broke one of the very few, very reasonable rules we have set for you. Apologize, now.”

Peter flushed. “I-I’m sorry.” He wasn’t really, but he figured it was best to just give them what they wanted.

Mr. Caldwell gave him a _look_. “You’re sorry, _what_?” His voice was flat.

Peter looked at his shoes, tried to push down the anger and cursed himself for forgetting. He was normally better at this. “I’m sorry, _sir_ ,” he said. “Ma’am.”

“Again, without the attitude. And look at us when you’re speaking to us.”

Peter grit his teeth. He hadn’t had an _attitude_. But he swallowed his pride and took a deep breath, tried to force his face into _shame_ rather than _resentment,_ kept his tone carefully even. “I am sorry, sir.”

“Hmph. And what, exactly, are you sorry for?”

It took almost two hours for Peter to force out an apology they were happy with. He basically had to say he was the scum of the earth who had thrown back their magnanimous generosity in their face, that he was a bad and undisciplined truant who needed guidance, and then he had to practically beg for their forgiveness and for them to grace him with proper discipline. It hadn’t helped that halfway through it had devolved into a screaming match, Peter unwilling to put up with their stupid fucking barbs and holier-than-thou attitude, and then Simon had woken up and come to explore the commotion, so Peter got in trouble for that too. Thankfully, Zach had gotten Simon out of the range of fire pretty quickly and very skillfully, but Peter still felt bad. Even if it wasn’t fully his fault. The Caldwells were being ridiculous. And his shoulder fucking hurt. Where, you know, he’d been shot.

Finally Peter managed to say the right string of words to appease them for now, and they “allowed” him to be shut in his empty fucking room and sleep, with promises that there would be further consequences in the morning. He had to give them his phone, and jacket, and and everything in his pockets, which included his earplugs and his goggles. It had been a long time since Peter had been able to sleep without earplugs and something covering his eyes, and besides that he was much too upset to sleep. They’d even taken the fucking pillows.

He covered his head with his arms and curled up upside-down in the corner of the ceiling right next to the door. If he wasn’t going to sleep anyway, it was fine to be on the ceiling. He’d be able to get back on the floor on time if anyone tried to come in.

By the time the sun came up around 7:00am, Peter was exhausted. He was drained from patrol, and seeing the kids, and then that whole fight, and being _shot_ , and he had a headache from sobbing for a good few hours and trying to block out all the noise and light, plus he was _cold_. The temperature was fine for a normal person, but Peter got cold easily ever since the bite—almost no body-fat—and he didn’t have any blankets or a jacket or anything.

In short, it _sucked_.

Eventually, Peter decided to sneak out to the bathroom before the Caldwells woke up again. He dropped down the the ground and tried the door. It didn’t move. Peter frowned. It wasn’t locked, because his door didn’t have a lock. He dropped to the floor and looked through the crack. There was a solid wood dining chair leant against the door. He groaned. “You have _got_ to be kidding me. Really?”

Peter could have forced it open, but he was pretty sure that: a) a normal kid couldn’t do that; and b) the dining chairs were expensive and he’d get in a hell of a lot more trouble if he broke one. So he stewed and paced and generally worked himself up into a fouler and fouler mood. Also, he really did have to go to the bathroom. At around 9:00am, Mrs. Caldwell got up and made coffee, then breakfast, and collected her husband and Zach and Simon to eat. She didn’t get Peter. _Seriously?_ Peter could have screamed.

 _Play it smart, Parker_. He’d play along with their stupid fucking game until he could get out of the room, and then he’d call Ms. Rhee and asked to get transferred again. He couldn’t stay here. Report them, too. Because this wasn’t okay.

At 9:30am, when it became very clear that no one was coming to get Peter, he forced himself to stop shaking and very gently and contritely knocked on the door. “Um, Mrs. Caldwell, ma’am? May I please go to the restroom?” _There_. No one could find fault with that.

The table quieted at his voice, but no one responded to him. A few second later, the sounds of people eating breakfast resumed.

Peter’s breath hitched. They’d _heard_ him. They’d fucking heard him, and they hadn’t done anything. He knocked again, more authoritatively. “Please? I really need to go.”

Still no response even though, again, they’d definitely heard him.

Peter clenched his fists and stared at the door. He wasn’t sure whether to break it down or start screaming profanities through the wall. Somehow, he calmed himself down enough to go with a third option. “It’s a fire hazard to lock me in a room with no viable exits.”

That, at least, got a response from Mrs. Caldwell. “There’s no fire, Peter. You will be allowed to leave your room to go to the restroom and eat once the rest of us are finished. For every minute you spend interrupting our family time that you chose not to participate in by acting out, you will spend another ten minutes in your room. Understood?”

Peter literally bit his tongue to stop himself from snapping back at her.

“My wife asked you a question, Peter. You will answer it.”

Peter contorted his face into ugly fake smile. It never would have passed muster if they could see him, but Peter really didn’t care. They were the psychopaths who’d locked him in an empty room and wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom. “Understood, ma’am,” he called, voice sickly sweet. He very much wanted to punch someone.

 _Stick to the plan, Parker. Suck it up and play along. This isn’t even that bad. It’s not like they’re hurting you_.

He wasn’t let out until 11:00am. At that point, most of his attention had been diverted from being angry at the Caldwells to not peeing his fucking pants. Then came another round of groveling. They had saved him food, cold eggs and soggy toast, and Peter ate without complaint, even though he was still livid. He was _allowed_ to go to his shift at the diner, which started a noon, but he didn’t get his phone back and the entire Caldwell family sat in a corner booth for his whole shift, watching him. Their meal came out of his paycheck, since he’d “made them” come watch him.

His tips weren’t good that day. He was too on edge, too upset, too scared to be properly friendly. The shift manager, Tara, pulled him off waiting halfway through and put him on dishes. “You’re scaring the customers, Parker. Come back next shift with a better attitude, yeah?”

Peter swallowed down bile and apologized and promised to do better. He desperately needed the money. If he had any more shifts like this, he wouldn’t be able to afford his HRT, let alone stuff for the kids.

Then it was back to the Caldwell’s place, where he shut back in his empty room to “contemplate his actions.” Apparently he was grounded “until he learned the error of his ways.” When he asked how long that would be, he was awarded an extra day for his insolence.

Also, being grounded apparently meant being locked in an empty room if he was not at school or work. After a truly obscene amount of groveling, and doing the dishes, and cleaning the bathroom, and raking the yard, and cleaning the gutters—all things he wouldn’t mind being asked to do if there hadn’t been someone standing over him and asking him to recite his wrongdoings the whole time and oh yeah, his arm wasn’t still sore from _literally being shot_ —he was finally allowed to have his school books in his room so that he could do his homework.

It only took him half an hour or so to finish math and chemistry. English and history took a lot longer, especially since he had to hand-write his essays for both classes and the first two drafts were completely illegible with how many erasings and corrections he had to make. He wasn’t even sure if he was allowed to hand in hand-written drafts, and he had to physically count his words, since ‘three pages double-spaced times-new-roman’ didn’t exactly translate into handwriting. He thought one page double-spaced might be about two hundred and fifty words, but he wasn’t super confident about that. He certainly wasn’t going to ask the Caldwells. So, he wrote a little disclaimer for his teachers at the beginning of each essay. He hoped they wouldn’t take too many points off if he was wrong about his word count. Or for not handing in a typed version. He really needed to keep his GPA up so that he could keep his scholarship.

After a few hours, his hand started seriously cramping up, but he pushed through it. At least those fucking pigs had shot him in his left shoulder, so he was fine to write with his right hand? Peter was vibrating with the need to punch something. Or someone. Or at least go swinging. He felt physically sick at being locked up like this, unable to feel the wind rushing across his skin.

He wouldn’t be able to call anyone or do anything until school on Monday, so he had to make the best of it until then. He was slightly tempted to just bust out and find Ms. Rhee, but he was worried that if he caused any property damage, he’d get put in front of a judge again. At least the Caldwells hadn’t called the police. Which, _God_ , when had that become his standard of parenting? _At least they didn’t beat me or starve me or call the police on me to try and get me arrested for sneaking out_.

This wasn’t normal, right?

_Right?_

At 10:00pm, the Caldwells made him turn off the lights. Which was bullshit. Then they took his school books and put them in their room, so he couldn’t even work any more after they went to sleep. Which was also bullshit. Peter did manage to tuck a pencil into the elastic of his sweatpants, and he spent most of the night softly doodling ideas for the Stark Competition on the walls. He focused his work on the area right above the door, figuring that was the last place most people would look. His shoulder still ached, but it was healing up nicely with regular, if cold, meals.

Ned had been onto something with the idea of making his web fluid into a solid, more permanent thing, and Peter had a few new ideas from his nighttime escapades. He already knew how to make his formula long-lasting; indeed, the trickiest part of the process of designing them in the first place was figuring out how to get it to dissolve while still being strong enough to hold him and web up criminals. But he wasn’t quite sure how to shape it into a useable solid material. Plus, he’d need to tweak the formula a _lot_ so that no one at Stark Industries could connect its chemical makeup with Spider-Man’s webs. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that Tony Stark _himself_ would ever be looking at submissions from high schoolers, but there still had to be plenty of people at SI who worked on superhero stuff. Better safe than sorry.

Around 3:00am, a door down the hall opened. It wasn’t the Caldwells’ door, but Peter quickly turned off the lights and dropped down to the ground. A minute later, there were some scuffling sounds in the hall. Peter’s door creaked open slowly, and a tall figure crept towards his bed on soundless feet. Zach, the ten-year-old.

Zach reached forward, paused when he realized Peter wasn’t in his bed. His heartbeat skyrocketed, and his breath went shallow, and Peter decided he should probably make himself known before the kid freaked out too much. “Hey,” he said, just barely above a whisper.

Zach jumped and whirled around, both fists clamping over his mouth to muffle a high-pitched swear.

“Nice vocabulary,” Peter commented.

Zach flushed but recovered quickly. He walked over to Peter and tried to loom intimidatingly. Peter had to admit it might have been effective on someone else. Zach was much taller than him, and the dark was creepy. But Zach was also _ten_ , and Peter was Spider-Man. He’d had _hardened criminals_ try to loom over him in the dark, and Zach was not a hardened criminal.

So, Peter looked up at his new foster brother. “‘Sup, little man?” he said, because that was a thing siblings did, right? Tease each other about height?

Zach frowned in confusion. “What? No, I’m not—that’s not why I... No.” He gathered himself, the worry collected on his brow and shoulders too much for such a young kid. “I need to warn you.”

Peter felt a distinct clench of unease in his stomach. “About what?” he asked.

Zach’s eyes darted around the room, like he was afraid someone could possibly be hiding in the empty space. He leaned closer to Peter. “You can’t fight them,” he said. “Or report them. Understand?”

Peter’s heart ached. Because in one way—yeah, he understood what Zach was asking. In another, he hated that the kid felt the need to tell him that. “Why?” he asked. “What happens if you do?”

Zach eyed him warily, then sat down next to him. “It gets worse. Much worse. And not just for you. I can take it,but Simon—he doesn’t understand these things. It doesn’t make sense to him, and it just hurts him more.”

Peter frowned. “You know that’s not okay, right? If they’re taking out things _I_ did on you and Simon?”

Zach shrugged. “Sure.”

“Then you get why I have to tell someone? Because it’s not okay.”

Zach looked at him like he was the stupidest person on the planet. “You _can’t_ ,” he said, more insistent. “You’re new, so you don’t get it, but you _can’t_. _Please_. You have to promise you won’t make a fuss.”

Peter thought about his response very carefully. “Can you explain to me why?”

Zach chewed his lip, sent another furtive glance around the room. “When I first got here, Simon was already here. He was like eight, and I was seven, and he was way worse than he is now. Like, he wasn’t even potty trained and he had nightmares all the time and he stuttered a lot and he didn’t really have many words. And he was really, really scared all the time. When he messed up, like if he didn’t make it to the potty or something, they’d lock him in the bathroom for hours, or in the closet with all the lights out even though he’s scared of the dark. And I knew that wasn’t an okay way to treat a little kid, because he couldn’t understand what was happening. But if I said anything, I’d get in trouble too. So I told my caseworker, and they did this whole investigation, and they decided that it wasn’t abuse. Like, the taking away all your stuff or making you sit in the dark or taking away your door or making you run laps or chores or any of the other things they do. That’s all normal parent stuff, so you can’t do anything about it.”

The longer Zach talked, the angrier Peter got. “It’s _not_ ,” Peter said. “That is not normal parent stuff.”

Zach shrugged. “That’s what the judge said. But that’s not the point.”

“It’s not?”

“The point is they got so so so mad when I told my caseworker. And they couldn’t do anything during the investigation, but after? When it was all over?” He hunched over his knees. “It got so much worse.” He looked at Peter; now that Zach was slumped, they were of a level. “I’m pretty good at just doing what I need to and saying the right things, so it wasn’t so bad for me. But they realized that it wasn’t really hurting me, what they were doing, so they put me in charge of Simon and if I got in trouble, he would also get in trouble, or the other way around, and it was just really really bad. But it was all the same stuff that judge said was okay. Just more often. And it took _months_ before they finally decided I learned my lesson and things went back to normal. So if you keep fighting them, or you snitch, or anything, it’ll just get worse for a really really long time and nothing will happen anyway and so _please_ , you can’t do anything to make them madder.” His eyes went wide and desperate. “I can teach you all the words to say to make them less mad, and how to act, and all of that, but _please_ , you’ve gotta stop making them mad.”

Peter felt sick. He hadn’t slept in almost two days. He’d been shot, humiliated, and locked in an empty room. He was shaking.

But he was Spider-Man. This was his _job_ , to fight for the people who were otherwise overlooked. He had to do something.

He had no idea what to do.


	16. I-15. Nålbinding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter reaches out to some of the adults in his life. MJ is a goddamn hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooph. Okay. Wow, thank you all so much for all of the wonderful wonderful comments. I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep responding to all of them, but I definitely read each and every one and they brighten my day so much!! I'm really floored with how much love this project has gotten. 
> 
> Tw for more of the Caldwells' bullshit/child abuse; verbal bullying; sensory overload/panic attack

“My phone was confiscated and I’m grounded; I couldn’t get it back or get a message to you without getting into more trouble.” Peter forestalled the lecture he was sure he was about to get from Ned and MJ, who were both waiting at his locker before school Monday morning.

MJ gave him a flat look. “‘Hello, MJ. How was your weekend?’” She dropped her pretend Peter voice and shifted into pretend MJ to respond to herself. “Oh, not great, thanks, my brother came back from college and there was a huge family blowout, but at least I didn’t get _shot_ , so I have that going for me.’” She looked pointedly at Peter. “That’s how a normal conversation works, loser.”

Peter winced. “Your brother’s back? I thought he said he-”

“I don’t _actually_ want to talk about it, dumbass.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Um, sorry.”

“God, you’re an idiot.” She poked his shoulder and studied him carefully. “Healed?”

“Ta-da.” Peter did jazz hands. “All better.”

She squinted at his face, judging. Peter didn’t exactly have the best track record when it came to concealing injuries from friends and family, but he actually was entirely healed this time. Finally MJ nodded, accepting his assessment.

As soon as she did so, Ned glommed onto him, crushing him into a tight hug. “Don’t _do_ that again, dude!”

Peter jumped a bit in his skin as Ned crashed into him, but quickly returned the hug and let himself lean up against his friend, finally feeling _safe_ for the first time in ages.

MJ leaned against the lockers and watched them, looking fond. Which meant her face was completely expressionless, but her hickory-brown eyes were soft and gentle.

“Does you being grounded mean I’m back on babysitting duty?” MJ asked, when Ned and Peter finally pulled apart.

Peter sent her an apologetic look. “Please? If you can?”

She nodded. “Might not be every night. I’ll text Elliot and work it out.”

“Thank you,” said Peter, trying to put everything he felt into the words. “Seriously, MJ. You’re a goddamn superhero.”

She just gave him a look.

“And your…web-surfing activities?” Ned asked.

Peter chewed his lip. “Probably on hold, at least until I figure some things out. Oh, but I did have a breakthrough in my idea for the Stark competition! I’ll tell you about during our free period. Also, can I use your phone? Mine is still indefinitely confiscated.” He tried not to sound bitter about that. Or, like, the whole situation with the Caldwells.

Ned nodded and passed it over. Peter punched in Ms. Rhee’s number by memory, a little bit surprised when he dialed and the phone recognized her number. Ned had her saved as contact. Peter held the phone to his ear as it rang. Zach’s warning still hung heavy in his mind, but he could at least set up an appointment with Ms. Rhee. He didn’t have to tell her anything right now.

The phone rung and kept ringing. Weird. Normally, Ms. Rhee picked up after the first ring. Finally it connected to an answering machine, a recorded message saying Ms. Rhee was on vacation for the next two weeks and giving the number of an alternative caseworker to contact for any questions. Peter cursed in his head. Ms. Rhee had told him she was going on vacation, but he’d completely forgotten about it. She’d also given him a different phone number, written out on a green sticky note, that could reach her wherever she was, but she’d stressed that it was only for emergencies. Like, _emergency_ emergencies.

And Peter really couldn’t classify the situation with the Caldwells as an emergency. He wasn’t in _danger_ or anything. He also very much did not want to reach out to some random caseworker he didn’t know who could not be trusted. So he’d just have to wait until Ms. Rhee got back from vacation. Two weeks. That was nothing.

He handed Ned’s phone back to him, and was saved from having to explain his angsting by the bell ringing for first period.

* * *

“So the problem is, right,” Peter chattered, sitting upside-down on the empty bleachers during a free period he shared with Ned and MJ on Wednesdays, “that usually I keep my fluid in pressurized airtight canisters, and then it expands and catalyzes into a solid substance when it hits the air. So it’s just, like, solid goop. It doesn’t have _structure_ outside of the base chemical makeup. It’s not an easily workable material. It’s just a lump of _stuff_.”

He’d figured out how to make his formula not-sticky (and not-dissolving, though that was less ‘figuring out’ and more ‘returning to his original formula from before he’d tinkered with it to make it dissolvable so that people could actually eventually get out and he was less traceable’). It had higher tensile strength and was tougher and more durable than his normal web fluid, while still being just as ductile and lightweight. He’d infused his new formula with antiseptics and large amounts of vitamin K, which would promote coagulation and stave off infection if it was used for bandages. He’d gotten the idea from real spider-silk.

“Alright,” Ned nodded, following along. “So if you synthesize it in a lab setting, could you, like, squish it or pull it through a tube or something that makes it flat, or string-like, or something?”

“I don’t _think_ so?” said Peter. “Because that’s basically what’s happening when it flows through my webshooters. I tried, like, mixing it in a beaker, and then where the hexamethylene-diamine meets the dicarbolic acid it catalyzes into the final substance and I can kind of tweezer a bit out into this liquidy thread-tube thing and wrap it around a pencil, which I thought would be kind of like a skein of yarn? But then it sticks to itself and doesn’t dry thread-shaped. It’s just, like, dry fluffy mush. Like cotton candy texture, almost? Except not sticky, and very strong, and permanent. So, not like cotton candy at all.”

“Hm.” Ned considered the problem. “Instead of wrapping it around something when it’s wet, you could string it out so that it dries in string-shape?”

“Mm.” Peter bit his lip and considered the idea. “The main problem with that is _space_. Where on earth can I dry out yards and yards of this stuff for a full twenty-four hours? Like, I’m _not_ bringing it to the Caldwells’, and there’s nowhere in school where I can just take over the whole room to lay out a bunch of string. And how do I make it consistent? The tubes are kind of…goopy.”

Ned frowned in thought. “Yeah, that is a point…”

“Spin it.” MJ didn’t look up from her book. Peter hadn’t even realized she was listening. Of course, he should have known that MJ was always listening.

“But that’s the whole problem!” Peter countered. “If I spin it, it sticks to itself before it dries and then I can’t do anything with it.”

MJ rolled her eyes. “Not the liquid mush, idiot. Spin the dried cotton-candy stuff. Treat it like, wool or something. Or, silk, more accurately. Because that’s what it is. Synthetic silk.”

Peter blinked and stared at her. “MJ, you’re a genius.”

“I’m aware, loser.”

Peter spent the rest of the day surreptitiously googling how to spin silk. He went with both the cheapest and most easily concealable method, a drop spindle, and ran to a craft store on his lunch break to buy supplies. He bought several spindles, just in case some of them were confiscated, and a few balls of raw silk fiber for practicing on.

He ended up chatting about the basic contours of his project with the store clerk, a girl named Charlie, who was a giant fiber arts geek and _hugely_ helpful. She suggested that once he had the thread, instead of weaving or knitting or crocheting it into fabric, that he should use this weird ancient viking method called nålbinding because: one, he would only need to work a few feet of yarn at a time, so he could keep synthesizing his silk in batches; two, nålbound fabric didn’t unravel, even if a stitch wore out or was cut through; and three, each stitch could interlock and connect with up to nine other loops, instead of just its immediate neighbor—this made the fabric more elastic _and_ denser. Plus he only needed one needle and some thread. Charlie showed him how to make a nålbinding needle out of a hair clip, which was super cool, _and_ she showed him how to do the basic stitches.

When he gushed out his gratitude and lamented that he couldn’t afford to give her, like, a ginormous tip for customer service—was that even a thing you could do at fabric stores?—, she laughed him off. “Just show me this fabric when you’ve finished it, yeah? Sounds super cool. And maybe a five star yelp review?”

“You got it.” Peter gave her some awkward finger guns and ran back out of the store with his newly acquired supplies. He was twenty minutes late to his physics class, but he didn’t regret it even after Ms. Warren gave him detention for his tardiness. If anything, detention sounded great. It was basically just after-school study hall. As long as you were quiet and not on any electronics, you were fine. He could work on his Stark project, _and_ he had a built-in acceptable excuse not to go back to the Caldwells.

He didn’t even particularly mind the lecture Mrs. Caldwell gave him through the school office phone (his phone was still confiscated) to tell her why he wouldn’t be back to their house on time. He didn’t mind when she insisted on talking with an administrator to confirm that he actually had detention and wasn’t lying about it to sneak out. He even shrugged it off when Mr. Caldwell picked him up from the school after detention to escort him on the subway trip back to Queens, not trusting him to return alone. And he bit his lip and smiled when Mr. Caldwell interrogated Coach Wilson to make sure that Peter had actually stayed in detention the whole time. Whatever. They _did_ have good reason to think he might skip out. It was fine that they were treating him like a weird mix between a criminal and a toddler. It was fine.

He just had to tough it out for twelve days until Ms. Rhee got back, and then he’d tell her everything and ask to transfer somewhere— _anywhere_ —else.

What he _hadn’t_ banked on was that he’d get in additional trouble with the Caldwells for getting detention. So, in addition to being grounded (straight home after school or work, where he had to stay in his empty bedroom the whole time unless he was doing chores, food only after the rest of the family had eaten), they made him do laps in their tiny fenced-in backyard “until he was tired, since he obviously had too much excess energy to burn if he was able to sneak out and cut class.”

Peter resisted the urge to snap that he _hadn’t_ cut class, just been late, and what the fuck kind of punishment was this anyway? Instead, he tried to figure out exactly how fast a normal fifteen-year-old could run and how quickly they’d get tired.

He must not have been doing a good job of it, because by the time they finally let him go in, Peter was actually tired, which was saying something.

He still couldn’t sleep well, but at least he’d managed to sneak his current round of nålbinding into his room to work on instead of sleeping. He was getting a lot better at it as the days went on. It was relaxing, the repetitive motions, the tactile feeling of silk thread on his fingertips. It was also really cool how an actual physical tangible thing was being created out of just thread, and thread he’d synthesized and spun himself, at that.

* * *

“Hey, loser,” said MJ, at school on Friday. “You’ve been quiet lately. What’s wrong?”

Peter hesitated. He’d told Ned and MJ that he was grounded, that he was just toughing it out for now, but he hadn’t told them the extent of everything. He opened his mouth to speak, but—he knew what MJ would say, if he told her. That he would need to report it. And she would be right, he thought, but…Zach had been so _scared,_ that night he’d warned Peter. He hadn’t made a reprise warning since then, but he knew the kid was watching him, tense, whenever he was at home.

Peter saw now that what he’d taken as shyness in the ten-year-old was in fact wariness and fear; the way the kid always hunched down on in himself and didn’t make eye contact; the way he shielded Simon from the Caldwells’ view with his own body whenever he could; how he kept a watchful eye on everybody’s body language; the way he gently and near-silently dealt with Simon’s temper tantrums before the Caldwells even realized something was wrong; how he never spoke unless spoken to; the way he ghosted around the house fixing problems before they could be noticed in a desperate attempt to keep the Caldwells in a good mood. Zach had already reported the Caldwells, and this was the result.

Would telling MJ make things worse?

“Just tired,” Peter finally said. “Sick of being grounded, but…” He shrugged, deliberately casual.

MJ’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hiding something.”

“What?” Peter’s voice went high. “No…no, not hiding anything. 100% completely honest, that’s me.” _He had a fucking secret identity, why the hell couldn’t he lie properly?_

MJ scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She reached into her backpack and dropped a stapled stack of papers in front of him. The first page was a blank, heavy, off-white sheet torn from MJ’s sketchbook, but the rest were normal printer paper. There were a few yellow flags sticking out from the pages, and MJ had doodled spiders on all of them with a sharpie.

“What’s this?”

“Just read the highlighted bits. Or don’t. I don’t care.” On that note, she left to get to her next class.

Peter frowned, but stuffed the packet in the back of his history notebook. During class, he snuck it out and flipped through. He saw almost immediately why MJ had decided to cover up the first page before dropping it on him, because it read, ‘New York State Foster Parent Manual’ in big, boldpurple letters. That would have been a magnet for bullying. And for making Peter freak out.

He flipped to the tagged sections. The first was on page twenty-four, under, “Confidentiality and right to privacy.” Only one paragraph had been highlighted. It read:

> **Telephone**
> 
> A child in foster care has the right to receive or refuse any calls made during reasonable hours that are determined by the foster parent. The foster child must be allowed to call anyone he or she wants to; however, the time, duration, and cost of such calls may be restricted. Except at the child’s request, neither agency staff nor foster parents may listen in on a child’s phone conversation. There may be times when a foster parent and caseworker may want to discuss phone calls and possibly restrict certain calls, based on the particular case situation.

Beneath it, MJ had scrawled, “At the very least,”—she’d underlined ‘very least’ twice—“you should be able to call us in the evenings to check-in.”

Peter’s heart did a weird contstrict-y thing.

He flipped to the next flag, only two pages later. This highlighted section read:

> **State regulatory standards for discipline of children in foster care**
> 
>   * Deprivation of meals, snacks, mail, or visits by family as a method of discipline is prohibited. 
>   * Room isolation as a method of discipline is prohibited. 
>   * Corporal punishment is prohibited. 
>   * Solitary confinement is prohibited.*** 
>   * Discipline shall be prescribed, administered, and supervised only by adults. Such responsibility shall never be delegated to children. 
> 

> 
> *** Sending a child to his or her room for a reasonable period of time is acceptable. A child is not to be locked in his or her room, however.—New York State Office of Children and Family Services (OCFS) Regulatory Standards on Discipline, 18 NYCRR §441.9

Then there was a whole section about how to “enhance family life,” which MJ hadn’t highlighted, but Peter read anyway because it was right there. It was filled with bullshit tips like “Praise and reward good behavior; compliment the child whenever he or she does well, including ordinary and expected tasks.” Peter snorted quietly to himself. God, he was so beyond even that basic stuff. He’d be ecstatic to settle for being completely ignored. He missed the Fosters. Which, on some level, he recognized was fucked up.

The next and final flag was on the page after that.

> The list of prohibited punishments in state regulations is not an exhaustive list of the inappropriate ways to control children’s behavior. Additional examples of unacceptable methods of “discipline” include: 
> 
>   * Verbal abuse 
>   * Ridicule
>   * Washing a child’s mouth out with soap 
>   * Forced silence for long periods of time 
>   * Excessive physical exercise
>   * Unreasonable denial of clothing or bedding
>   * Requiring child to stand erect for specified periods with his/her nose against the wall
>   * Standing at attention with eyes turned toward the ceiling
>   * Forcing a child to crawl on knees across a floor strewn with rice
>   * Frightening, humiliating, or demeaning a child
> 

> 
> Any abuse or maltreatment of a child, either as an incident of discipline or otherwise, is prohibited, as stated in OCFS regulation 18 NYCRR §441.8.

Tears prickled in Peter’s eyes and the words swam before him.

Irrationally, Peter was overcome with a hot spike of anger at MJ. He _knew_ , okay? He knew and he didn’t want to be reminded and he especially didn’t want her to know and _God_ , he was so fucking ashamed, which didn’t even make sense but he _was_ , because he should be better than this, he should be able to deal with this himself, he should have been smart enough not to get caught in the first place.

Everything was loud. He was already wearing his spare earplugs, which he kept exclusively at school now, so that the Caldwells couldn’t confiscate them. But it was still too loud. Too much.

It was too loud, and bright, and the lights were screaming, high-pitched whines in his ears, the squeak of Mr. Ellison’s marker on the white-erase board, and Peter was wearing the stupid fucking clothes that the Caldwells had bought him, which were itchy and too rough on his skin, tags digging in and _hurting_ , and _fuck_ , why was Peter so fucking incompetent that he couldn’t even wear normal fucking clothes?

He pitched out of his seat, stumbled blindly towards the door, notebook still clutched in his hands. “504,” he managed to wheeze out at Mr. Ellison, citing his accommodation plan, and then he fled to the nurses’ bathroom. They were used to him here, and let him lock himself in the dark, on the cool porcelain tiles.

Peter struggled to rip himself out of the too-harsh clothes, struggled to breathe. He panted on the floor in nothing but his boxers and curled up into the little space between the toilet and the wall, desperately trying to feel something resembling safe.

Sometime later, Peter gathered himself up and hesitantly grabbed the printed-out manual from where it had fallen on the bathroom floor. He flipped to the table of contents, then navigated to a page MJ _hadn’t_ highlighted. Page fifty-nine: “Abuse or maltreatment of a child in foster care.”

There were definitions. Peter didn’t think he fit into any of them. Sure, there was a bit about “inflicting unreasonable punishment,” but the rest of it was all about physical abuse that led to “serious physical injury or death,” sexual abuse, or not providing food, clothing, and shelter. The Caldwells weren’t doing any of that. It wasn’t…it just wasn’t the same.

He read through the enforcement section.

> As the subject of an abuse/maltreatment report, the foster parent, and any other persons named in the report, must receive a notification letter within seven days of the oral report to the SCR.

SCR. Another fucking acronym. Why were there so many goddamn acronyms? It was confusing enough without all the letters swimming around in his head. He flipped through the booklet, trying to find out what that was. He finally found it buried in the text of page ten. Statewide Central Register of Child Abuse and Maltreatment. As far as he could tell, it wasn’t related to OCFS, where Ms. Rhee worked, or ACS, which was the agency that his lawyer was a part of. _Why_ did everything have to be so complicated and convoluted?

But despite all the agency alphabet soup, it was pretty clear that the Caldwells would be informed if Peter said anything.

> If it is determined that the foster child is not safe, the agency will take steps to protect the child. This may include removing the child from the foster home.
> 
> In an investigation, the CPS worker will want to interview you, the child (if old enough), and all children in the home as well as other family members, the birth parents, medical providers, neighbors, friends, etc., about the incident.
> 
> Questions may include: 
> 
>   * What happened to the child? 
>   * Who was supervising the child at the time of the incident? 
>   * Where did the incident occur, and who was physically present at the time of the injury? 
>   * What basic needs of the child went unnoticed or unmet? 
>   * How long did the situation last? 
>   * Has a complete and detailed physical examination of the child been performed? 
>   * What were the results? 
>   * Was the child treated? 
>   * Who was notified about the incident (e.g., police, doctor, parent, teacher, relative)?
> 


Those didn’t sound like questions that would get the Caldwells in trouble. Even if they did, it seemed like the first course of action wasn’t removal from the home, but instead counseling for the family. So, like, therapy. What the fuck was up with the state’s weird emphasis on therapy for everything, like their shitty fucking therapists made a damn bit of difference?

Ten days until Ms. Rhee came back from vacation. Not like he was counting down the hours or anything.

Fine. Ten days.

He stared at his face in the dark bathroom mirror, red and blotchy from tears. He could do this.

Slowly, painstakingly, he pulled on the clothes he’d discarded on the floor, grimacing at the rough texture of the weave against his skin.

The next period had started while Peter was freaking out in the bathroom, so he got a note from the nurses and swung by Mr. Ellison’s classroom to pick up his stuff before going to linear algebra. He’d forgotten that Flash had history the period after him, and nearly flinched at the low comment muttered at him as he passed by. “Aww, Penis couldn’t even make it a whole class without crying like a girl in the bathroom. How long do you think before they take away your pity scholarship because you’re too useless to even go to class?”

He didn’t give Flash the dignity of a response, merely clenched his jaw and kept walking.

Back out in the hallway, he wiped away the single stupid tear leaking down his face. Peter was getting real fucking sick of crying.

He didn’t pay any attention in math. He didn’t do anything else either. Just stared straight ahead as his thoughts slowly coalesced around him. He’d need to get the notes from Abe or Cindy later, but that was a problem for another Peter.

If he rushed after linear algebra ended and headed straight to the computer lab, he’d have just enough time to send an email and not get in trouble for being late to chemistry, his last class of the day. He could have asked Ned or MJ to borrow their phone, but he didn’t really want to have this conversation with them. He was so fucking tired.

Thankfully, contact info for NYU postgrads was easily google-able, since they all taught classes. He didn’t have Skip’s number memorized, unlike Ms. Rhee’s. Heart thudding in his chest, he typed out:

> Dear Skip,
> 
> I hope its okay I’m writing to you like this. My phone was confiscated and I don’t have your number. Is there any way you could call my new fosters and ask if you could have me after school for some mentoring stuff? Their number is 718-346-2291. I think they’d say yes as long as I’m supervised and the request doesn’t come from me and it’s part of making me a better citizen and stuff. Ms. Rhee is on vacation and I need to talk with someone about system stuff. I don’t know what to do and I need some advice. It’s kind of important.
> 
> Sorry for any inconvenience and don’t worry about it if you don’t have time! I completely get that this is not your job and you have other commitments. Nobody is in any immediate danger or anything.
> 
> Thank you so much and sorry again for bothering you like this!
> 
> Best regards,
> 
> Peter Parker (from the mentorship program)

Before he could freak out too much, he clicked send and fled to his chemistry class. He felt nauseous the whole period, but also strangely proud. He’d done the adult thing. He’d asked for help. From, like, a responsible person who knew how the system worked.

Now it was just a question of whether Skip would come through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based the way Peter's webs are made on how nylon is synthesized. If you want to see the process, here's a short video on youtube [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lNWc6xUf6U4) and a longer one that explains the science and does cool glow-in-the-dark things [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTh_5CWMSoQ)
> 
> Nålbinding is a real thing that is really cool!! [link](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/N%C3%A5lebinding)
> 
> The foster parent manual is also a real thing, and is available here: [ocfs.ny.gov/main/publications/Pub5011.pdf](https://ocfs.ny.gov/main/publications/Pub5011.pdf)


	17. I-16. One More Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pepper attends a meeting. Peter talks to Skip. The situation with the Caldwells hits a breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for: implied police brutality; workplace sexism; grooming; child abuse; some potentially inadvertent but still extremely troubling racism (Mr. Caldwell, who is white, calls Zach, who is black, ‘boy’—if you are not American/don’t know the history behind this, yes this is a racial thing: see [here](https://www.naacpldf.org/wp-content/uploads/Hithon-Brief.pdf) and [here](https://files.nc.gov/dncr-moh/jim%20crow%20etiquette.pdf) for some accounts of the history of the term); violence; mild gore

“All right, I’m done. Good talk, everybody.” Tony pushed himself up from the conference table.

Secretary Ross didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. “Stark, you can’t just leave—”

“Uh, yes, I can,” Tony retorted. “Look at me, leaving, right now.” He demonstrated his finely-honed ability of walking out of the room.

When several of the senior officials in the room looked apoplectic, and Pepper smoothly cut in before any of them made the mistake of trying to drag Tony back. “Perhaps we could get back _on task_ , gentlemen? Mr. Stark clearly is not going to be of any more service today, but surely we can still be productive without him?” The men circled around the conference table—with the sole exception of Rhodey—settled down, clearly picking up Pepper’s implication that they might be able to push through some revisions without Tony throwing up roadblocks at every corner.

Rhodey very carefully did not look at Pepper. He knew her game, and he knew that she wouldn’t let these men get away with anything that Tony wouldn’t. And probably some things that Tony would, if only because he was too tired to fight them.

“Wonderful.” With that, Pepper took control of the meeting. “Shall we table that discussion for the time being and turn to the matter of jurisdiction?”

Jurisdiction was a great distraction subject. Boring, but important and divisive enough that everyone felt the need to weigh in on it. And hopefully distracting enough to tear the subject away from Ross’s attempts to get Tony to track down the rogue Avengers.

She was pleased enough with the way the discussion went after that that she graciously ignoredthe Director of the FBI’s muttered comment of “What the hell is _she_ doing here anyway?” _She_ was the CEO of the largest private tech company in America, and the only source outside of Wakanda that was currently able to produce the kind of technology capable of restraining the Hulk, thank you very much. Unless the world wanted to rely solely on the previously-discounted and completely untrusted Wakanda to hold any rogue enhanced individuals—and T’Challa was very much _not_ going to agree to that even if they did—Pepper was going to be in the room for all these discussions.

The preliminary Accords were an awful mess. Pepper could almost forgive Rogers for going rogue and refusing to sign them. Almost. If, you know, he had actually read them in the first place and not betrayed Tony’s trust. But still, the Accords were truly horrendous and a gross violation of human rights on every level. They were a travesty of a document. They were the literal worst idea she had ever seen put on paper. And her idiot fiancé had signed himself to them.

To be fair, Tony would sign almost anything if you would promise to stop trying to hand it to him and get out of his face, but this…he was serious about this. Accountability. Even if he hated everyone involved. And the way he’d gone about it was idiotic.

So Pepper, as usual, would clean up his mess. Even if that meant dragging every world leader to a reasonable solution kicking and screaming. Which is what it felt like. The meeting today was one of a hundred such meetings she’d had over the past few months, though today’s was US-specific rather than full of foreign diplomats. It meant the conversation could be a little more candid, a little less veiled. Less pretty.

Just as she was patting herself on the back for a job well done—an hour and half later, and the discussion of the ex-vengers had been all but forgotten in the minutiae of inter- and intragovernmental boundaries—Ross brought a new matter to the table.

“Speaking of jurisdiction,” he said, “who exactly should be in charge of neutralizing the enhanced transhuman threat currently operating without any oversight right here in New York?”

Pepper ground her teeth. “Vision has agreed to be bound by the Accords once they are ratified, same as Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes. To imply otherwise—”

“Oh no, Ms. Potts, I wasn’t referring to any of your robot boyfriends.”

Pepper gave him a _look_ and a tight smile that promised retribution.

Ross continued on as though he hadn’t just insulted four of the most powerful beings in the world. “Though we _do_ have evidence that Tony Stark and Colonel Rhodes here knowingly collaborated with this dangerous and unquantified threat.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Mr. Secretary?” Rhodey was ready to fight. Pepper sent a silent nod of support his way.

Ross pulled up a file on the holo-projector. They were all treated to a view of a small red-and-blue figure holding up a school bus that he’d just stopped from careening into the Hudson. Pepper remembered that day. It had been a few months ago now, towards the end of summer, and Spider-Man had saved a bus full of thirty elementary school kids from plummeting to their deaths. He’d been New York’s darling for weeks afterwards.

“ _Spider-Man?_ ” asked Rhodey incredulously. “The guy’s small potatoes. And he’s not making trouble. Way below Accords-level concern.”

Ross disagreed. “Your average school bus weighs 12.5 tons. Spider-guy just picks it up like it’s nothing. He’s been seen dodging bullets when the NYPD has caught up to him. Add to that his webs, his speed, his preternatural ability to avoid capture, and this ‘small potato’ is a serious threat to national security.”

“So he’s got powers,” said Rhodey. “We’ve all agreed— _finally_ —that enhanced individuals who aren’t involved in military or governmental action shouldn’t have to register or agree to be bound by the Accords.”

“Regular individuals _who are living a normal life_ ,” the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security. “Any enhanced individuals who break the law automatically waive any such right.”

Pepper stayed quiet. They were verging on dangerous territory, but this wasn’t her fight.

“Spider-Man’s not a criminal,” Rhodey protested. “He helps old ladies with their groceries. He gets cats down from trees. He saved thirty kids from plummeting to their deaths.” He gestured emphatically to the screen. “None of that’s illegal.”

“Vigilante activities _are_ illegal,” said the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security. “And that’s what he is. He goes around beating up ordinary citizens with no sense of process, he’s resisted and fled arrest multiple times, and he’s not accountable to anyone or anything. Pull up the articles.”

He flashed through several news articles about Spider-Man’s menacing behavior, his lawlessness in going after ordinary people with his enhanced strength, the trouble his webs cause. “Secretary Ross is right: he’s a threat, and he needs to be neutralized. The only question left is whose jurisdiction he falls under.”

“Thank you, Deputy Secretary Elan.” Ross acknowledged the support. “SHIELD, obviously, is defunct. While we have our very own _superheroes”—_ his voice twisted over the word—“based here in the city, Iron Man and Vision are proving...troublingly recalcitrant to the provision of law and order.”

“Dr. Stark is not your personal lapdog, Secretary Ross,” said Pepper icily. “And neither is Vision. They have both agreed to be called upon in the case of a world-ending threat, but a man in spandex saving children and helping the elderly cross the street is hardly that.”

Ross tried to stare her down, but Pepper didn’t budge. Several of the participants around the room shifted in their seats. Ross blinked first.

He cleared his throat and continued on as if Pepper hadn’t spoken. “The obvious options would be either the military, a DHS operation, the FBI, or the NYPD.”

And, yet again, Pepper felt the need to speak up. _How were so many high-level officials so willfully blind to potential abuses of power?_ “It would set a dangerous precedent for the military to mount an operation on American soil, in one of America’s largest cities, against—presumably—an American citizen.”

“Inhumans who violate the Accords forfeit their right to citizenship and its protections.”

“That provision was never ratified,” Pepper snapped.

“It was never struck down,” Ross countered. “It stands as law.”

“It won’t hold up in court.” Pepper had spent a lot of time with lawyers recently. She knew what she was talking about.

“First it has to _get_ to court,” said Ross. “In the meantime…”

“The FBI is obviously a much more appropriate agency than the military to deal with domestic threats.” The Director of the FBI cut in before Pepper could respond.

“All due respect, director, that’s bullshit.” That was the Commissioner of the NYPD. “This is a local matter, and should be dealt with locally.”

“Then why haven’t you dealt with it locally yet?”

“If the federal government could provide funds commensurate with the threat, so we can get more of those laser-cutters that slice through Spider-Man’s webs and some mutant-specific rifles…”

And then they were off, all arguing about who got the glory of taking down Spider-Man. Pepper didn’t cut in again. After all, this was what accountability looked like. It didn’t matter that it made her stomach turn to think of a man who’d saved a bus of kids—a man who had never killed or even seriously harmed anyone as far as she knew—be hunted down like a dog. This was America, and that was what justice looked like. _This_ was what the system looked like when it was working.

And Pepper? She’d tied herself to that system, when she’d tied herself to Tony, when she’d tied herself to Stark Industries, when she’d tied herself to the Avengers. She had no right to object to it in action, to it doing what it had been built to do.

So she spared a thought for Spider-Man, then got back to work.

* * *

The weekend was, as expected, horrible. Completely irredeemable. Peter’s tips at the diner were slightly better though. He was getting better at faking it.

Peter was exhausted, though he’d managed to at least smuggle a pair of earplugs and a blindfold into his room. So, sleep was somewhat better, but he constantly on edge and worried about someone coming into his room and finding him with the contraband.

He had no idea whether Skip had gotten his email or not until Monday morning, when Mr. Caldwell informed him that Skip would be picking him up from school for some “good, old-fashioned community service.” Peter tried not to look too happy about that.

School was fine. He kept up his nålbinding under his desk in class, and didn’t even really register it when Mitch Marsters teased him about it being “women’s work.” Mitch was easier to shrug off than Flash; Peter had never been friends with Mitch, and Mitch didn’t know how to cut straight to the core of all his insecurities the way Flash did. It hurt less. Also, that was just a stupid insult. Ughhh, could the world just collectively stop with gendering everything and then putting down everything even tangentially associated with femininity? _Please?_ Peter was getting real tired of it. He just wanted to be your friendly, local neighborhood Spider- _Man_ , who also did weird, old-style knitting and liked pink and braiding hair. Was that too much to ask for?

Anyway, he was really happy with his progress. He was done with the first piece, which was a flat square, about four inches across. He’d wanted to make it bigger, but the stitches were so small that that would take _forever_.He was working on the second piece now: a thin, fabric tube that could act like a cable, except more elastic. He’d done a few (rather tame) tests on his new cloth, and so far it had held up admirably. Peter couldn’t rip it or cut it with a pair of scissors, so it was probably pretty strong. He was positive that it was stronger than steel wires of a comparable size, and thought that it might be stronger than most steel _cables_. Like, ‘strong enough to hold up a bridge’ strong. He was really, really happy about it.

Plus, after he finished up his stuff for the Stark competition, he was going to make himself a new suit entirely out of the stuff. In theory, it would be stab-proof, bulletproof, flexible, and still thin enough that he could stick to walls. Just _thinking_ about it made him bounce with excitement. He couldn’t wait until he was back on patrol.

Seven days until Ms. Rhee returned and he could get the heck out of dodge. He should get her a Christmas present for when she came back. Did she even celebrate Christmas? Peter wasn’t sure.

He thought on it a while, and decided it didn’t matter if she celebrated Christmas or not. It was the thought that counted. He added her to his ever-expanding Christmas list: Ned, MJ, Ms. Rhee, Simon, Zach, Elliot, Lily, Madison, Jada, Raine. Wreaths for May, Ben, and his parents. Probably he should get the Caldwells something too, as part of his ‘obedient child’ song and dance. Ugh. _Who knew, maybe it would soften them towards him?_ Peter was in an optimistic mood. He even caught himself humming as he sat outside school on Monday and waited for Skip to pick him up.

* * *

It took nearly half an hour for Peter to summarize the whole thing for Skip, pacing pack and forth in the basement lab at NYU. “So I know I _should_ say something, but what if that makes it worse, but on the other hand, what if by not saying anything, I’m condoning that kind of behavior and setting a bad example for the kids, but also I don’t wanna seem like I’m whiney or complaining or anything, and it’s not that I’m not grateful that, you know, they’re letting me stay or whatever, but it’s not okay, and I have to do _something_!”

He paused at the look on Skip’s face, halfway between amused and pitying. “What?”

Skip shrugged. “Nothing, really. That’s a tough situation.”

“No, really,” Peter pressed. “What was that look about?”

Skip frowned, all-American brow crinkled in thought. “It’s just…in my experience,” he spoke slowly, “causing trouble always made things worse.”

“But I’m not causing trouble!” Peter protested. “I’m just trying to be treated like a _person_ , and have that for Zach and Simon too.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Skip held out a placating hand. “I’m not saying you’re a troublemaker. Though your record…” He huffed a laugh and raised an eyebrow at Peter like it was some kind of inside joke.

Peter awkwardly chuckled along. Peter _hated_ that he had a court record. That he’d been marked out as trouble. Hated hated hated _hated_ it. He wasn’t trouble; he was _Spider-Man_.

Okay, maybe he was a little bit of trouble.

Skip sighed, seeming to pick up on his mood. He still spoke very cautiously and deliberately. “I’m saying that you are a kid who knows that he _should_ be treated like a human being. But shoulds aren’t really the thing in the real world, Einstein. Surely you’re getting that by now.”

“It’s not _right_.” Peter flushed. “Don’t laugh at me!”

“Sorry, sorry. Not laughing. It’s just…it’s been a while, since I’ve had a kid who thought he could stand up for himself. Most of the times, when kids get sent here, they’ve already learned that no one’s going listen to them. No one’s gonna care or be able to do anything if they ask for help, and it’ll just make things worse. That’s the message they’ve internalized.”

Peter scowled. “That’s not okay, either.”

“Never said it was. Just that it’s the truth.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Peter balled up his fists like he was getting ready to fight, but fight who, he had no idea—Skip? The system? The world? Himself? Everything was so confusing.

“I hope you never get that wide-eyed idealism shattered, Einstein. I really do. But…I’m worried about you, and what will happen to you if you go about making waves.”

“So your advice is that I should just do _nothing_?” Peter ground out. 

“Look, Pete,” Skip attempted a conciliatory tone, “you had a family, right? Like, an honest-to-goodness, be there for you through thick-and-thin family. You’re used to being loved and cared for. But you don’t have that anymore.”

“ _I know that_.” Peter barely recognized his own voice through the white-hot sheet of anger.

“I don’t think you do,” said Skip. “Not really. How many homes has it been now, eight? You don’t think your caseworker is getting tired of your bullshit? You don’t think, hm, maybe she put a little less effort into this one, because it’s just so fucking much and hey, the parents are good enough for a little scrap of a kid who’s impossible to place because no one wants him for too long anyway?”

Peter reared back. “You don’t know shi-”

“I’m not saying that’s how it _actually is_ ,” Skip cut him off with a scoff. “But it’s a system, Boy Genius. It’s a machine. Even if there’s one cog that’s great and caring and warm, if you get caught up in it, it’s still gonna suck you in and chew you up and spit you out and I don’t know if you’re gonna be able to come back from that.”

“So, yeah,” Skip put one hand on the back of Peter’s neck, “I’m saying don’t make a fuss. But it’s only because I don’t want you to get hurt. You’ve got a future, if you don’t fuck it up. Graduation, college, good things. You just got to tough it a little longer. You hear me, Pete?” He gave Peter a little shake.

Peter shrugged off the hand, uncomfortable. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he mumbled. Asking Skip for help had been a mistake. “You’re wrong,” he said.

“I’m really not, kid,” said Skip. “You just don’t know it yet. But you will, if you keep going down this path.”

There was something hidden and lurking behind Skip’s statement that made Peter’s hair stand on end. “I’m done arguing this,” Peter said, brushing away the feeling.

“Okay,” said Skip. “Just know: I’m telling you how it is, Peter, not sugarcoating it like everybody else. This is how it is.”

“You’re wrong,” Peter said again, but even he could hear the doubt in the statement.

* * *

By the weekend, Peter was in a piss-poor mood. It had been two weeks since he’d gone Spider-Manning, and he felt the itch almost as keenly as he had right after May had died. Bees crawling under his skin. He needed to be out there, needed to be doing something, needed to stop being so fucking useless and helpless and scared.

 _Three more days. Two more days. One more day_. It was like the chant in his mind was the only thing keeping him sane.

He’d been distracted and unfocused on AcaDec practice on Thursday, snappy with his tutees at his after-school tutoring program, and his grades were beginning to slip on account of, you know, no sleep and no computer. At least he’d finished the prototypes for the Stark competition. Two scraps of fabric tucked into the back of his locker. They didn’t look like much, but Peter was proud.

He’d do the written stuff for the submission after Ms. Rhee got back and he got computer access again. His teachers might have reluctantly accepted his handwritten essays—if only because his handwriting had gotten much neater over this whole ordeal—but he wasn’t going to turn in a proposal to _Stark Industries_ handwritten on loose-leaf notebook paper. He should have enough time. Ms. Rhee came back on the 21st, and competition entries were due by the end of the year. That gave him ten days to type everything up. No problem.

Church that morning had been awful, Peter stuffed into the itchy clothes and the smell of incense and candles clogging up the air. But it was fine. One more day. Not even a full day. He just needed to get through his shift at the diner and the night. Easy. He was almost free.

He was even given the dubious freedom of doing his shift at the diner free from supervision. Well, free from supervision besides his boss. No Caldwells. They were ramping up their Christmas preparations and apparently trusted him enough to get himself home after some _very_ thorough warnings about just how much trouble he’d be in if he took any longer than fifteen minutes to get back home after his shift. Peter grit his teeth and smiled and nodded and bowed and scraped and did his best ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘yessir’ and said he understood. Fourteen hours. He could do this. He could keep the bees buzzing under his skin at bay for fourteen more hours, and then he would _do_ something.

He got back to the Caldwells’ place at 7:13pm, two whole minutes before his curfew. As a reward for his promptness and good behavior over the past week, he was allowed to join the family at dinner. “See, Peter,” said Mrs. Caldwell, “having some discipline and order in your life has done you worlds of good.”

Peter stared at his plate and didn’t make a face. Faces weren’t allowed. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling blandly.

“Look at me when you’re speaking to me, Peter.”

Peter did, bland smile still plastered across his face. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” It was worrying how automatic this had become.

She nodded, satisfied, and Peter exhaled with a sigh of relief as he turned back to his dinner. Beneath the table, Zach squeezed his hand. Peter squeezed back.

After dinner, Peter automatically cleared everyone’s plate and started on the dishes. Apparently is was normally a shared chore, but it was part of his punishment that he did the dishes every night. By hand. Even though they had a dishwasher. Thirteen more hours.

“Simon,” said Mr. Caldwell. “It’s time for your haircut.”

Zach and Simon both froze, and the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stood upright. This was bad. Peter didn’t know why, but his spidey-sense was on high alert and this was _badbadbad_.

“No!” Simon shouted. “No haircut!” He was shaking his head, shaggy blond mane flying everywhere. “No haircut!” He ran.

Peter froze with his hands in the sink, ready to move.

Mr. Caldwell started to chase after Simon, but somehow Zach was in his way. Not aggressively, not stopping or blocking Mr. Caldwell, but just _there_.

Zach’s breathing had gone shallow and scared, and his heart was pounding way too fast. None of that showed in his face and his voice, which were carefully neutral. “May I go speak with Simon, sir? He may—”

“You need to stop coddling the boy, Zachariah,” Mrs. Caldwell snapped. “He is our child, for us to raise as we see fit. It is not your job to parent him.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I just wanted to he-”

“No excuses, boy,” said Mr. Caldwell. “You know this. I know you know this.”

Zach cringed back. “Yessir. Sorry, sir.”

“Hmph. We’ll discuss the consequences for your disrespect after this.”

“Yessir.” He shook as Mr. Caldwell passed by him towards where Simon had fled.

Peter had had enough. He put down the sponge and walked after Mr. Caldwell.

“Where do you think you’re going, Peter?” Mrs. Caldwell was still in the room. “There are still dishes to be done.”

Peter opened his mouth to respond, hot and angry and biting, but Zach was staring at him from behind Mrs. Caldwell’s back. _Don’t_ , said his eyes. _Please_. He looked terrified.

Thirteen hours.

Peter bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. He forced a smile to stretch across his face and somehow managed to grind out an apology. He turned back to washing the dishes. He had to be very, very careful not to smash them between his fingertips.

Mr. Caldwell dragged Simon back into the main room, kicking and screaming. Sure, the kid wasn’t as big as Zach, but he was still an eleven-year-old boy. His elbow caught Mr. Caldwell in the nose and the man hissed as something went _crunch_.

Peter grinned. Served him right. He was still tense, ready to move in case Mr. Caldwell responded in kind. Zach had _said_ the Caldwells had never hit the kids, but Peter wouldn’t be surprised.

But Mr. Caldwell just sat Simon down on the couch, shifting his weight so the kid couldn’t keep kicking out. Mrs. Caldwell slipped out of the room, which made Peter _very_ anxious, and Zach was edging along the wall, trying to get into Simon’s line of sight.

Simon calmed down a bit when he saw Zach, his sobs and screams fading into hiccups. Zach sent his brother an encouraging smile, and rapped his front two knuckles against his own chest in a steady beat. It was thing Zach did to calm Simon down, Peter knew, having seen it in action several times over the last few weeks. He’d rap out the pace of a heartbeat for Simon, grounding him onto something steady and real.

Peter knew, because of his enhanced hearing, that the steady rhythm of Zach’s hand was much slower than Zach’s actual heartbeat, which was rocketing off the charts. He kept his rhythm steady and calm as he sank to the floor, still making eye contact with Simon. Simon began to rock in rhythm with him, or as much as he could in Mr. Caldwell’s grip.

Mrs. Caldwell came back in the room, and as she approached, Mr. Caldwell shifted so that he loomed above Simon. Peter saw now why Zach had made himself lower: Mr. Caldwell’s body would have blocked him from Simon’s sight if he was still standing up, but now Simon could still see him through Mr. Caldwell’s legs.

 _I’m pretty good at just doing what I need to and saying the right things. I can teach you all the words to say to make them less mad, and how to act, and all of that._ Zach’s words from that night two weeks ago floated into Peter’s mind. Forget ‘pretty good,’ the kid was a goddamn genius. He was _ten_ , and he was doing all this, keeping Simon calm, manoevring through the Caldwell’s anger and rules. He was ten, and he was amazing, and he was heartbreaking.

Peter was fifteen, and a superhero, and he was doing nothing. He was _washing the dishes_ for these pieces of shit.

Restraints. They had _restraints_ for Simon. That was what Mrs. Caldwell had gone to get.

And Mr. Caldwell was lecturing, but Zach kept up the steady _thump-thump_ , so Simon was calm and Peter was holding on by a fucking thread, just that _thump-thump, thump-thump_ keeping him from doing something monumentally stupid.

Mrs. Caldwell turned the clippers on. A buzzing sound filled the air. Peter winced. Ever since his hearing had become enhanced, he’d hated that sound.

Simon, it seemed, felt similarly. His breathing stuttered. _Thump-thump_. Twelve and half hours.

Mrs. Caldwell brought the clippers closer to Simon’s head. Simon screamed. He twisted away, thrashed against his restraints.

The scent of blood.

Peter was across the room and over the couch before he knew it, Mrs. Caldwell’s wrist gripped tight in his hand, his body between her and Simon.

She froze, staring into his eyes. The clipper in her hand dripped blood onto the upholstery from where it had dug into Simon’s ear. There was a little flap of skin hanging off it and bouncing with the vibrations.

“ _What_ do you think you’re doing, young man?” Mr. Caldwell was furious.

“Don’t touch him.” Peter was calm. Peter was deadly calm. “Don’t touch him.”

Behind him, he could hear Zach whispering calming words to Simon, who was sobbing on the couch.

“You _dare_ lay a hand on my wife?”

Mrs. Caldwell was still frozen.

“I am stopping her from hurting the boy who is supposed to be _your son_.” Peter’s voice was deliberate, measured, and very far away. “Now, can you please turn off the clippers. They’re scaring Simon.”

When Mrs. Caldwell didn’t move, Peter reached for the buzzing, bloody thing. He switched it off and set it carefully on the coffee table. “Okay. Now, Simon is hurt. And scared. He needs medical attention.”

“Who in God’s green earth do you think you are to tell us what to do?” Mr. Caldwell reached passed him to grab at Simon, and Peter twisted to stop him. As he did, Mrs. Caldwell moved too, trying to yank free. Peter’s grip was too strong for her to wriggle lose, and sticky besides, but with a sharp and familiar ’pop’, her arm came lose from its socket.

She screamed in pain.

Peter dropped her wrist and stumbled back. “ _Shit_.”

Mr. Caldwell froze, then rushed to his wife, concern written clear across his face.

“Oh my God,” said Peter. “Oh my God. I am so sorry; I didn’t mean to do that. Oh my God.” _Shitshithsitshitshitshitshitshitshit_.

Mr. Calwell looked back at him. The two of them made quite a sight, with Mr. Caldwell’s bloody nose and Mrs. Caldwell’s arm. “Go to your room and await your punishment.” He was panting with rage.

Peter didn’t move. “Okay,” he said, desperately trying deescalate. “Okay. But first Simon and Mrs. Caldwell and need medical attention. And you too, probably.” A beat too late, he tacked on, “Sir.”

“No.” Mr. Caldwell shook his head. “No. You are _all_ on lockdown. This is insubordination, and I will not stand for it.”

Mrs. Caldwell stifled her sobs and and cradled her dislocated arm in her other hand. “Closets,” she panted out, in a seemingly complete non-sequitur. “Zachariah, Simon, you know the drill.”

Obviously, it made sense to Zach. He stopped trying to comfort Simon, eyes wide with terror. All the blood had drained from his face. “No.” He shook his head. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Please.” His voice cracked as he begged.

“This is not up for discussion, boy,” said Mr. Caldwell.

“No, please,” Zach pleaded. There was snot running down his face. “At least let me stay with Simon. He doesn’t understand…he doesn’t get it. Please.”

“No. Move. Now.” Mr. Caldwell’s tone brooked no argument.

Zach didn’t move. He was shaking, rooted to the ground in terror. “Please…please…I can’t—I can’t. Please.”

Peter looked at him, and he looked at Simon, who was full-on wailing again, half his face covered in sticky red blood. He looked at the Caldwells: Mr. Caldwell, puffed up and furious, menacing and unrelenting; Mrs. Caldwell, shaken and pale but unyielding, with an icy promise of pain in her eyes.

They were _fucked_. They were all fucked.

Peter didn’t think. He just acted. He hoisted Simon—still sobbing and bleeding, his arms and legs still restrained—onto his hip, grabbed Zach’s pale and clammy hand, and _ran_.

* * *

* * *

END OF PART 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎶 we're getting into it now. we're getting into it. 🎶
> 
> Part 2 will be the next 15 or so chapters, and then we will be caught up with the prologue! Sorry to those of you who were hoping we'd get to the happy stuff sooner, but this is how it is I guess (I was one of those people who thought, 'surely we can get to the comfort now,' but I was foolish and naive. There will be more suffering in part 2. There will also be the promised Stark Internship, and more lesbians, so...you get something?)
> 
> Part 3 will be fixing all the stuff I have broken in Parts 1 & 2
> 
> ...There may also be a Part 4, but I haven't decided yet. If so, I will update the chapter count accordingly. I assume y'all are in this for the long haul, because boy, howdy this thing is getting UP THERE in word count


	18. II-1. Rhee's Vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhee almost successfully takes a vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all!! Have a brief, lighter chapter (and wow, does it say something about this story that this is considered ‘light’ in comparison) <3 You get to meet my favorite character I’ve ever made up!! It’s Doreen!!! And her wife!! She and Prathi have been in my head for ages in a non-Spider-Man context, just two OCs hanging out without a story, and they both fit here (or at least, they did in my brain because I wanted them to). So enjoy some old sapphics making sex jokes! 
> 
> CW for: the system being fucked (lbr, that’s every chapter); some explicit (humorous) discussion of sex; mentions of child abuse; mentions of jail/police/juvenile justice system
> 
> As always, take care of yourselves!! <3

Rhee had two weeks blocked out for her (mentor-mandated) vacation. Her last day of work was the Friday after Peter’s trial, and she was scheduled to go back to work on Monday the 21st. Two full weeks off, plus the weekends on either side. She almost made it the whole way.

As much as she hated to admit it, she was glad for the break. She’d been distracted, off, for a while, and she wasn’t doing her kids justice. There was never a _good_ time to take off, but now that Peter’s aunt’s sentencing trial was over and he was settled into a somewhat more stable home environment, most of the issues on her plate could be pushed off for a few weeks, or might even resolve themselves before she got back.

Aaliyah, who was six, had starting wetting the bed again, and Rhee did her best to coach her grandparents, who were fostering the girl, through a series of increasingly frustrated phone calls. She ended up snapping at them after the sixth call that week, because _Jesus, this really wasn’t that big of a deal, just change the fucking sheets and let her know it’s okay, it’ll stop when it stops_ , and then feeling incredibly guilty and angry at herself when she called them back five minutes later to apologize.

Then she needed to help sort out Diamonte’s paperwork. He was aging out and had signed up to join the army out of a lack of any better options. Rhee hated sending her kids to war, but fuck if that wasn’t truly the best option a lot of them had. She sent a prayer to a God she didn’t believe in for the boy, because there wasn’t anything else she could do besides making sure he understood what he was signing when he signed away his life. And she wasn’t even sure if she managed that. She was also trying to make sure that Diamonte would be able to stay in contact with his younger half-brother, Jalen, while he was deployed, but Jalen’s caseworker wasn’t returning her calls and after weeks of phone tag Rhee was losing steam.

Then there was Rosa: barely sixteen and five months pregnant, bouncing in and out of group homes, and God, it shouldn’t be this hard to make sure she was getting consistent OB-GYN appointments. Or actual good medical information. Different doctors had either given the poor girl conflicting advice or not ensured that she actually understood what they’d told her, so now Rhee was googling medical articles and calling friends in the field and trying to make sure the girl actually knew how to take care of herself and the baby, but she could tell it wasn’t quite making sense to this _literal child_ who was carrying another kid inside her, and God, it was a fucking _week_.

All that to say, she was desperately in need of a vacation, however much she’d tried to put it off.

* * *

She showed up at Prathima and Doreen’s doorstep on the night of Sunday the 6th and collapsed in their fancy living room area, open to their kitchen. They had upholstered chaises and velvet curtains held back with braided silk rope. There was a gold and glass drink cart. The kitchen had an island with a granite countertop. There were two separate sinks. It was fancy as fuck.

But it was also cozy. The couches were plush and creased from use, and Rhee felt no compunctions at all about curling up in one in her bare feet, wearing leggings and a ratty old T-shirt from Jackson State Community College.

“Old Fashioned?” Prathima asked. She was a sharp-eyed woman in her mid-seventies, though she could pass for her fifties even with the thick silver hair that ran straight down her back like a waterfall. Her skin was dark and smooth, with only a few gentle creases at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth. Like Rhee, she was barefoot. She wore a plain pink shalwar kameez with a clashing red and green woolen scarf wrapped around her shoulders. Somehow she pulled it off, looking effortlessly graceful and professional in a way that came with a solid sense of self and an easy lining of money.

“Fuck yes, doc,” Rhee replied to the drink offer. She watched with no small amount of admiration as Prathi prepared the cocktail, long fingers effortlessly muddling the sugar with bitters, peeling the rind off an orange with a knife in a single long swirl.

Dr. Prathima Vishwakarma was one of Rhee’s favorite people. Rhee had exactly three people that she cared about in her personal life: Mrs. Whitmore from next door; Prathima; and Prathima’s wife Doreen. All of them more than twice her age. Hell, Mrs. Whitmore was over three times Rhee’s age.

The doc was only recently retired. She still had valid degrees in both psychiatry and psychology, and she’d worked with juvenile offenders for over twenty years. Rhee’d met Prathima on a case, four years ago, when Rhee had just started in the field at the tender age of twenty-three. Almost young enough to be in the system herself. Marie-aged. The doctor had bullied her way into Rhee’s life and became a sort-of mentor, sort-of friend. Enough so that Rhee was spending five days of her vacation in Prathima’s home with a strict ‘no work-talk’ policy.

“Ooh, is that for me? Thanks, babe.” Prathima’s wife Doreen swept into the kitchen and plucked the glass out of her hand as soon as the drink was finished. She was a plump white woman who looked exactly like the stereotypical image of Mrs. Claus, including the creased smile lines wrinkled across her face and the red cable-knit sweater. Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief as she spirited away the glass and settled into the couch across from Rhee.

“Actually that was for our guest, dearest, but you already knew that.” Prathi’s voice was dry and fond.

“Well, _obviously_ , that’s why I have to check it and make sure you didn’t poison it. And to make sure that it’s any good. Couldn’t have our Rhee drinking bad cocktails.”

“No, that would be a tragedy,” said Rhee, straight-faced.

Doreen took a sip, unsuccessfully hiding a smile. “It _seems_ to be all right,” she said. “Maybe I should have another sip or two, though, just to be sure.”

Prathima rolled her eyes as she strolled into the living room area, a glass in each hand. She handed Rhee her own cocktail and curled up on the couch next to her wife.

“Thanks, Prathi.” Rhee took a sip. _Fuck, that was amazing_. She closed her eyes and just let herself enjoy it. She should ask if she could bring Mrs. Whitmore over sometime; her neighbor would be properly impressed by the doc’s cocktail-making skills. “This is a new one. Rye?”

“Mm.” Prathima nodded. “I know you’re a bourbon girl, Rhee, but I came across this truly delightful single malt, and I figured we could expand your whiskey palette.”

“I’m always down for good whiskey, doc, you know that.” She took another sip. “Even you’ve decided to stray away from my first love.” It was really good whiskey, even if it wasn’t bourbon, tawny and spicy and _delicate_ in a way that melded deliciously with the bitters and the orange.

They talked about whiskey—with a good deal of sampling—and about the various activities Prathima had taken up in retirement. Apparently she’d been acting as a street medic for protests, “milking her medical certifications for all they were worth” as she called it, and had also been taking glassblowing classes.

When they’d gotten drunk enough, they turned to reading aloud and critiquing the current draft of Doreen’s latest book. Doreen Hawthorne came from old New England money, before she’d been disowned in the 1960s for her “alternative lifestyle.” Since then, she had made back all that money and more on an empire of straight romance and erotica novels. They were pure trash, but delightful, hilarious trash, and you hadn’t truly lived until you got to hear a round-faced, kindly old woman in her seventies expound upon the nuanced differences between a ‘throbbing member’ and an ’engorged organ.’

“It just feels different,” Doreen insisted, in the certain and slurred tone of the pleasantly drunk. “When you read it, when you say it, it just feels different in your mouth. You have to agree on at least that much!”

“I regret to inform you, dear,” Prathima commented dryly, “that I really can’t have an informed opinion on the _feel_ of a throbbing member. In my mouth or otherwise.”

Rhee and Doreen both burst into laughter, but Prathima kept an admirably straight face after her pronouncement.

Doreen sighed and shook her head in mock sadness at Rhee. “My wife, the gold-star lesbian. It truly is a tragedy she was never experienced the sensation of a good dicking down. Although,” she adopted a thoughtful expression, “there has truly been a remarkable advancement in sex toys in recent years. I think we might be able to find something long and throbbing to try out, dear.”

Rhee screeched and covered her ears as Doreen cackled in wicked mirth. Prathima’s mouth twisted into a smile and she sipped her—fourth? fifth?—drink of the night.

“I do _not_ need to know the details of your sex life,” Rhee choked out. “You’re like my _parents_. No. I am not listening. I am not hearing any of this. You are both awful.”

Doreen sighed, long-suffering. “ _Someone_ has to corrupt the youth. It is a thankless task, but nevertheless I persist. Why, you have not even gotten up to a _tenth_ of the mischief I’d gotten into by the time I was your age. Truly, what is the world coming to?”

Yeah, Rhee had really needed this vacation.

* * *

After her five days with Prathima and Doreen, Rhee spent another five days in a cheap Airbnb in the middle of nowhere, upstate New York. The town had about a thousand people in it, just a bit bigger than her hometown of Gadsden, but the pine trees and crisp air and snow all made it feel so different from the town outside Jackson, Tennessee where she’d grown up.

It was nice, just her and the snow and some heavenly tomato omelets from the town’s single restaurant-slash-diner.

She returned to the city on December 16th, a Wednesday, with enough time left in her leave to take care of all those stupid errands that popped up in adult life that needed to be done during normal business hours: going to the bank, visiting the dentist, getting all her various check-ups in before the end of the year and her insurance deductible reset.

Rhee felt like an accomplished and responsible adult human being. Sure, she hadn’t actually done any laundry in her entire two weeks vacation, and had eaten cheap take-out or pasta the whole time, but she’d showered every day, and spent six hours on the phone with Equifax to make sure her credit was frozen after their stupid data breach without yelling at anyone. So, that was a win.

Rhee was scheduled to start work again on December 21st. On December 20th, at 11:58pm, having almost successfully taken a vacation, Rhee got a call on her emergency phone. It was technically her personal phone, but Rhee only had three friends, all of them septa- or octogenarians who preferred in-person communication to phone calls, so it worked as an emergency line too.

She blinked blearily awake and pawed at the cursed loud thing on her bedside table, clicked ‘accept call,’ and held it to her ear.

“Um…Ms. Rhee?”

Rhee looked at the caller ID. It wasn’t a number she had saved. And Peter was the only person who called her ‘Ms. Rhee.’ But this wasn’t Peter’s voice. “Who is this?” she asked, still blurry from sleep.

“Um, right, okay…this is, uh, Ned? Peter’s friend? Ned Leeds.”

A pit of dread settled in Rhee’s stomach, and she pushed herself out of her tangle of sheets. “And how did you get this number, Mr. Leeds? Did Peter give it to you?”

“Um….yeah. Yeah, Peter gave me this number. Definitely, that’s how I got it.”

“You need to work on your lying, kid.” Rhee stumbled into the kitchen, set a kettle boiling for some instant coffee. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

“Oh. Um, well…”

“Peter?” Rhee interrupted. “Is he safe?”

“Well, he’s not about to _die_ ,” said Ned Leeds, which was not comforting at all. "At least, I hope not? Oh God, what if he's dying and I've just been sitting here"

“Leeds!” Rhee snapped. She dug through her drawers for some professional clothes to replace her PJs. A horrible thought occurred to her. “Are _you_ safe?”

“…Me? Yeah, of course I’m safe. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s Peter that I’m worried about.” That actually seemed to be the truth. And given how obviously horrible the kid was at lying…yeah, he was probably fine.

“What happened? Spit it out.”

“Okay, but you can’t get mad. It’s really not his fault. There was this whole thing with—”

“Leeds.” She stripped out of her PJs and pulled her clothes on.

“Okay, okay. “ He took a deep breath. “Peter’skindofbeenalittlebitarrested.”

Rhee stopped doing up her shirt buttons. “Say that again?”

“Peter maybe got a tiny bit arrested?” The Leeds kid’s voice squeaked.

“Okay.” Rhee was calm. She was very calm. “That’s what I thought you said. Where, when, how, and why?”

“It was like…three hours ago? I was on the phone with Peter, and he was at my place, and then the cops just busted down the door, and I’m pretty sure they arrested him, but the connection kinda got broken when all that happened, so I may have done a teensy bit of ha—um…listened to the police scanners. Yes. That. I listened to the police scanners, which is totally legal and a normal thing normal people do, and I’m pretty sure he’s been taken into the 103rd precinct along with the kids, but I’m kinda in the hospital with my dad right now and things aren’t looking real great, so I can’t track him down, and even if I could, I’m not even really sure what I would _do_? Because they’re, like, _cops_? And Peter _can’t_ be arrested, Ms. Rhee, he really can’t, so you’ve gotta go and fix this. I mean, you can do something, right?” The kid was near tears.

And, wow. There was _way_ too much to unpack there, not the least of which was that the kid had just hacked into the police database, which had to be a pretty serious crime. And he was a truly terrible liar. He must get it from Peter. Or maybe it was the other way around. “…Kids?” she finally asked, pouring boiling water and instant coffee grounds into a thermos.

“Oh, yeah, like, Simon and Zach? The kids who were also staying with the Caldwells?”

“…Right. And _why_ was Peter arrested?” She pulled on her shoes—solid black flats with cushioned soles—and threw her keys in her purse.

There was a pause. “They may have thought that Peter kidnapped the kids. And maybe also that he attacked the Caldwells.”

Before Rhee could ask why the cops would think that, Ned jumped to his friend’s dubious defense. “He had to, though! They were in danger!”

Rhee pinched the bridge of her nose. Peter had taken the younger Caldwell kids to Ned’s home while Ned was out because _they were in danger_. He'd supposedly attacked the Caldwells. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots. “Was that danger from the Caldwells?” she asked, tense.

“Yeah.” Ned’s voice was somber.

 _Fuck_. Of all the times to take a vacation… It was useless to beat herself up over this, but that wasn’t going to stop her. _And why hadn’t Peter called her in the first place?_ Worry about that later. “Okay, kid. This happened three hours ago? Why am I just hearing about it now?”

“It took me a while to find your emergency number.” Ned sounded defensive. “The people at the agency wouldn’t give it out, and I don't have my computer with me, so I had to—”

“Don’t.” Rhee closed her eyes. “Do _not_ tell me how you got this number.”

“Uh, okay.”

“103rd precinct, you said?” Rhee slipped out the door and locked it behind her.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ve got to make a few calls. Anything vital I need to know before I do that?”

“I don’t _think_ so?” Ned sounded uncertain. “I mean, I’m still not entirely sure what’s going on. Peter just called me a few hours ago totally panicking saying that he was at my house, so I told him he could go ahead and break in because Mom and I are both at the hospital, or, well, he'd actually kind of already broken in at that point, but it was totally okay with me and Mom so he had retroactive permission? Like, if he hadn't, then he wouldn't have got the phone or the first aid kid, and he needed the first aid kit for Simon, but then he was patching up Simon and the police were at the door apparently, and then they arrested him and hung up the phone, so I didn’t hear anything else besides what was on the scanner and the rec—the, just the scanner." Ned took a breath. "I can keep looking into it?”

“Nope.” The last thing she needed right now was another teenager breaking the law. “No. Do not do that. Do not do anything that could get you in trouble. I’m serious, Leeds. Peter has enough to worry about without you getting arrested too.” Those were the big guns, but Rhee figured this was the time to pull them out. “Okay?”

Leeds seemed to struggle a bit before he managed to agree. “I _guess._ ”

That would have to do. “Thanks, kiddo. I’ve got this, and I’ll keep you updated. Go be with your dad.”

Rhee hung up over Ned’s stuttered goodbyes and started her car. Thank fucking God for this piece-of-shit Toyota. Cars in the city were expensive and a waste of space, but public transit in Queens was a nightmare, and she didn’t fancy trying to figure out the busses to get to Jamaica at ass-o’clock at night.

She dialed, then held the phone to her shoulder as she put the car in drive. It rung four times before the voice on the other end picked up.

“Rhee? Is everything okay? I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow.” Marie Takahashi’s voice was hushed, but not full of sleep, and there were sounds of a commotion behind her.

“You in the middle of something?”

“Case. Should be done in about an hour or so.”

“Great. No rest for the wicked. When you’re done, I need you over at the 103rd. Our boy Peter’s been arrested.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “… _Parker_?” Her voice was incredulous.

“None other. I have basically no details—something to do with his placement and his foster siblings and potential abuse, runaway, kidnapping, assault, I have no idea, it’s a mess—but I’m on my way over now.”

“ _Fuck_.” Marie whispered the word with feeling. “Okay, yeah. I’ll be there. Keep me updated.”

“Mm-hmm.” Rhee made a turn, plotting the fastest route to the police precinct in her head. She didn’t have anything else to say, but she didn’t hang up either. It was kind of nice, having Marie’s thoughtful silence in her ear.

“So,” Marie asked, “was this how you planned on spending your last few hours of vacation?”

“Fuck you.” Rhee bit back a relieved grin, glad for something to break the tension. She hoped it didn’t show in her voice. She had a reputation to maintain.

“You’ll have to ask me nicer than that,” Marie responded with a teasing lilt.

Rhee nearly drove the car off the road.

“Have fun with the boys in blue,” said Marie, as if she hadn’t nearly just caused Rhee to flip her car into a ditch, and damn if there wasn’t some form of sadistic glee in her voice under the worry.

“Fuck you,” said Rhee, this time with feeling. “Fuck you, and fuck this, and fuck my fucking life.”

Rhee swore she heard Marie laugh before the sound was cut off by the other woman hanging up the phone.


	19. II-2. Intake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets arrested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Updates may slow down a bit as I start school/work again. Then again, they may not. I do not know the future. But, this is bringing me so much joy to write, so it's pretty high up there on my priority schedule, and I have a decent amount of individual scenes already drafted.
> 
> TWs for this chapter include: police brutality (fear of, slight rough treatment); the criminal justice system being fucked; sexual assault (very briefly referenced as a possibility/fear, no acts or words in-text); transphobia (discussed); anxiety; some dehumanization in a carceral setting. lmk if you think I'm missing anything, i feel like might be.
> 
> As we get into more of the police/justice system stuff here, I want to make something explicitly clear: **Black Lives Matter.** The systemic injustices in this story are often shown through how they affect Peter, who is white, but many of these things disproportionately affect communities of color and especially Black people in america and worldwide. As a non-Black person myself, I am trying my best to educate myself on everything that is going on here and write things in a respectful manner without either minimizing the experiences of Black folks or trying to tell their stories. please feel free to let me know if there is anything i could be handling better! I am trying my best, and drawing upon my own experience as a mixed-race queer person for some of the parallels, but I know it is not the same. 
> 
> I'm going to have a few more specifics in the endnotes for this chapter about real-life problems for kids in the criminal justice system in NYC, but if you are interested in joining the fight against ongoing police brutality and for valuing Black people's lives in this country, you can get involved here: [blacklivesmatters.carrd.co](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/)

Peter sat in the precinct, handcuffed to a bench, and stared at the floor, leg bouncing. He’d been there, like, two hours now, ever since the officers had arrested him at Ned’s.

He was terrified.

He should have known that the first thing the Caldwells would do was call the cops, and that Ned’s would be one of the first places they’d checked. _Stupid_. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ , fucking Parker.

At least Ned hadn’t been there. At least he’d been spared _that_ particular trauma.

The kids hadn’t been so lucky. Peter was pretty sure the memories would stick with them forever. The cops breaking down the door, guns raised and shouting. Peter had rushed in front of Zach and Simon, not just because they were kids and he was Spider-Man, but because Zach was black and Simon wasn’t good at following orders and if Peter couldn’t do anything right, he could at least—

It hadn’t come to that. None of them had been shot—yay! Jazz hands—but they’d been dragged roughly down the stairs and shoved into the back of the police cars. Or at least, Peter had. His arms were still bruised from where the cop had manhandled him. He hoped they’d been gentler with the kids, but he wasn’t so naive as to actually believe it. He hadn’t seen Simon and Zach since then.

Instead, he’d been handcuffed, fingerprinted, then pushed down onto this bench and linked to it by a fucking chain and asked a bunch of questions. He hadn’t answered any of them, except to say he wanted his lawyer. He’d seen TV. He knew you didn’t talk to cops without a lawyer. He thought they were supposed to leave you alone after that, but apparently not, because they just kept _pushing_ , kept asking, kept going. “Wouldn’t you like to resolve this without the intervention of the courts, kid? Just tell us your side of the story.”

But Peter wasn’t an idiot. He knew cops could lie to you, and he knew he was entitled to a lawyer. So he clenched his jaw and didn’t say anything except that he wanted his lawyer.

And his caseworker. This definitely counted as an emergency worth calling Ms. Rhee over. He didn’t have Ms. Takahashi’s number memorized, but he’d given the cops her name and Ms. Rhee’s emergency phone. They hadn’t called it.

Peter asked them where Simon and Zach were, if Simon had gotten medical attention. They didn’t answer, but Peter had heard through the walls a few doors down that both kids had been taken to the hospital. So that was good, right? That had to be good. He didn’t know where the Caldwells were, and he didn’t ask.

“So, kid,” said the guy chained up next to him, who must’ve been 6’5 and completely ripped, “first time enjoying the fine hospitality of the NYPD?”

Peter paled, not necessarily because the guy was scary, though he was, but because Peter had definitely webbed up this guy as Spider-Man before. He shrugged and made a non-commital noise.

“Uh-huh,” said the man. “Well, you’re doing all right. Not great, and you’d be doing better if you weren’t so jittery and jumping at every noise, but you got the ‘ask for a lawyer’ thing down, and that’s the main one.”

“Uh…thanks,” said Peter, both mortified and glad that his voice cracked on the thanks. Shit, he should really install a voice modulator into the next version of the spider-suit. He added it to the mental checklist: one, bulletproof; two: more pockets for snacks; three: voice modulator.

They made awkward small talk for a few minutes. Well, Peter was awkward. Criminal guy, whose name Peter still didn’t know, was just kinda going with the flow. He didn’t ask Peter anything about why he was there, and didn’t volunteer any information about himself, but it was kind of nice. Got some of the anxiety out. Just a normal conversation. That he had while handcuffed. To a bench. In a police station. With a guy who had every reason to hate Peter.

An hour and a half later, Peter had drifted off in spite of himself. The adreneline had worn off, and he hadn’t slept well recently, and it wasn’t like there was anything else for him to do except worry. And, well, he was definitely doing that too, but he could multitask.

He jolted awake an hour and half later. He looked around, tense, for whatever had woken him up. Wow, he’d been drooling on Mr. Criminal Guy’s shoulder. That was embarrassing. Mr. Criminal Guy just smirked and shoulder-bumped him. Peter was thankfully awake enough to let the bump move him in his seat. Peter decided he liked Mr. Criminal Guy. He was sad he didn’t know his name, but it would be kinda weird to ask now, right?

He didn’t see anything wake-up-worthy at first, but as he screened the precinct…there was a voice…there. “Ms. Rhee!” Peter called.

His voice was hoarse and rough from sleep, but a second later Ms. Rhee pushed around the corner, pointing unerringly towards Peter. “What the hell?” she snapped at the two officers flanking her. “You have a _minor_ chained to a bench, without his guardians, without counsel, without anything? Point me to whoever’s in charge, because this is _not_ acceptable.”

The officers at least had the grace to look a little uncomfortable.

After that, things moved quickly. Peter was unchained, though still handcuffed, and taken to an interrogation room with Ms. Rhee.

“Hey, hey,” she stroked his back gently. “I’m not your lawyer, kid, and they’re watching, so don’t say anything, but I’m here and I’ve called Marie, okay?”

Peter, embarrassingly, broke out into sobs.

“Shhh, shhh…I’ve got you, baby. You’re okay. You’re okay.” She repeated the words over and over as she rubbed his back, and Peter scooched his chair over and curled into her, heedless of the snot running down his face.

Ms. Rhee was there, and Peter just sobbed.

Sometime later, he’d calmed down. “How-” his breath caught, “how did you find me? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Shh, kid. It’s okay, it’s okay. Your friend—Ned?—he called me when he couldn’t get in touch with you again.”

Peter blinked, then his face crumpled again. Ned, who’d been in the hospital with his dad, who’d been on the phone when the police came in, who’d Peter put all his _stupid_ fucking burdens on, who must’ve been worried sick, and it was all Peter’s fault.

“Oh, baby. Shhh. It’s okay. None of that now, Peter. Your friend cares about you a lot. That’s a good thing, okay? You are loved. You are loved, baby, okay? You need to know that. Okay?”

Peter nodded against her, but didn’t have the energy to stop crying.

That was how Marie Takahashi found them some time later, and she shooed Ms. Rhee out of the room so that they could talk with confidentiality.

“Hi, Peter,” she said. “How’re you doing?”

Peter wiped away his tears and sniffled. “Oh, could be better.” He tried to joke, but it just came out sad.

“Yeah,” she nodded, eyes sympathetic. “I need you to tell me your side of the story, okay?”

Peter nodded, and did. She listened throughout it all, sometimes asking clarifying questions or scribbling down notes, but otherwise silent and attentive.

“Thank you,” she said when he was done. “I know that was hard, and it’s been a long day.”

Peter huffed. _That_ was an understatement.

Her lips thinned in agreement. “This will change soon, but, for the time being, the Caldwells are still your legal guardians.”

Peter tensed, and Ms. Takahashi forestalled any comments. “You’re not going home with them.”

Peter nodded, swallowed. “Simon and Zach?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Their lawyers and caseworkers are on the scene. Rhee made sure of it. Okay? They’re being taken care of the best they could be right now.”

Peter shook his head. “Are they? Because their caseworkers didn’t—”

“Peter,” his lawyer interrupted. “There’s nothing else you can do, okay? You got them out and things are being investigated. With your permission, I’ll pass on this information to the investigators on the case. But we’ve got to focus on you now.”

“But—”

“No. Peter, listen to me. You’re in trouble. You are in serious trouble right now. They’re pushing assault and kidnapping charges on you.”

Peter felt his eyes widen. “But I didn’t—”

“I know. I know. But we’ve still got to deal with this, okay? Tomorrow, I’m going to get you a criminal defense lawyer, but for tonight, it’s just me and we need to talk about what’s going to happen now.”

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest. A criminal defense lawyer. Yeah, that was serious.

“Thing number one, and you’ve already done a great job of this: don’t talk to anyone about this without your lawyer present. About anything that happened. Not the cops, not other kids, not your friends, not Rhee, not a lawyer unless they’re _your_ lawyer, nobody. Okay?”

Peter nodded. He could do that. He could do that.

“Okay. At some point in the next day or two, you’re going to be brought up before a judge for arraignment. They’re currently charging you as a juvenile offender, which means you’re going up in state supreme court instead of family court.”

Peter’s breath hitched. “They’re trying me as an adult?”

“Not exactly.” Ms. Takahashi grimaced. “They’ve just implemented a law in October that says no minors can be sentenced as adults in the state of New York, and that minors can’t go to adult jail. There’s a special part of the state supreme court, called the youth part, where thirteen- through fifteen-year-olds can be tried for more serious offenses. What we’re gonna do, is we’re gonna try and convince the prosecutor that this should be a matter for family court instead of criminal court. But that might take a while, and we’re not sure how how successful it will be. What you need to know, Peter, is that even if your case stays in the state court system, you’re still not going to be tried as an adult. If you’re found guilty, your sentencing will be lighter than an adult’s and you won’t go to an adult jail as long as you’re still a minor.”

The air was pressing in on him. Peter hadn’t missed the implication that he could go to adult jail when he turned eighteen. That was three years away. _Three years_ —surely they wouldn’t? But then, Sasha had gotten twenty. “But that’s still, like, I’m being charged with, um, actual real criminal charges?”

Ms. Takahashi’s mouth twisted. “Yes, you are. For the time being. And we’re going to do our best to change that. But there’s nothing you can do right now, okay? Tomorrow, we’ll start the process of trying to get the charges dismissed or transferred, and there’s nothing you can do until then, and even then, it’ll mostly be the lawyers working on it, understand?”

“I guess,” said Peter, distant, dizzy from the crying and the day and the information.

“Okay. Tonight, you’re going to be transferred to a secure facility.”

“You mean jail?” Peter interrupted. “Prison, juvie, whatever.”

“Yes. For youthful offenders and those awaiting trial, ages thirteen to fifteen. There’s a separate facility for older kids.”

Peter swallowed. He was going to jail. It didn’t seem real. It couldn’t be real.

“You’ll be there for at least the next day or so, and then you’ll have an arraignment hearing, where the judge decides whether to grant you bail or not.”

How did this even _happen_? Peter tried to slow his breathing. “So,”—he scanned back through what she’d just said, tried to find something to grasp onto—“so it’s just for a day? Just until the- the arraignment?”

“Or so,” said Ms. Takahashi. “In theory, you should get your arraignment hearing tomorrow morning. In practice, it might take two or three days. They have to get you in before Christmas Eve, though. So, three days maximum.”

“Oh,” said Peter, “cool.” Three days. He could do three days.

“So, somewhere between one and three days until your arraignment, and then you’ll either be released to a group home or a new foster family, or denied bail and you’d need to stay in the facility until your trial or until a deal is worked out.”

Peter nodded, shaky. “Okay,” he said. So, longer than three days. “Okay.” Nothing was real. “How long—how long would that be?”

She sighed. “Could be less than a day if we reach a favorable deal; could be months if it goes to trial.”

Peter made a strangled noise. _Months_? He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t-

“Breathe with me, Peter. Breathe with me.”

Slowly, he got himself under control, breathing along with his lawyer. He was still shaky, dizzy, confused. Terrified.

“We’ll deal with that when we get to it, okay? We’re going to get you as little time in custody as possible. But tonight, all we’re going to do is get you to the facility so that you can get some sleep, okay?”

“But…” Peter didn’t have anything to put after that ‘but.’ He just knew, he just knew that he couldn’t go to jail. But that was stupid, because of course he _could_. He just didn’t want to. He just _really_ didn’t want to. Spider-Man couldn’t go to jail. Because then he’d be a bad guy, because that was how it worked, because the bad guys went to prison and Peter put them there, and if _he_ was a bad guy, then— then—

“Breathe, kid.” Ms. Takahashi broke out the breathing exercises again. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t easy, and isn’t fair, but this is how it is. Is there something specific you’re worried about, or is it the general situation? I can try and answer any questions you have.”

Well, he wasn’t going to tell her about Spider-Man. But Peter could have more than one fear. “Will it—” he started, “will it be a problem that I’m trans?” He barely managed to choke out the question. He couldn’t look at her.

“I hope not,” she responded, which wasn’t exactly reassuring, but wasn’t false hope, either. “Rhee’s talking to them right now. The facility is co-ed, with different floors for boys and girls. No contact between floors. You’ll be getting a private room. Because your gender-change paperwork hasn’t gone through yet, we could probably get you on either floor. Do you have a preference?”

Peter paused, thought about it. _Boys_ , was the obvious answer, right there on the tip of his tongue the one he so desperately wanted and needed to go with, but Peter wasn’t stupid. He’d seen TV and he’d heard the jokes and he knew what could happen to _pretty boys like him_ in prison, except worse because of, well, yeah. Everything was spinning, the world was horrible, he just wanted to curl into a ball and cry, but he didn’t have that luxury. “Bathrooms?” he asked instead.

“We’re going to get you special permission to use a private bathroom in the nurse’s office. For showers as well. Best we can do.”

“Would it…” he paused, trying to think of what he was asking, “If I choose one now, would it have to be the same for if I get...if they say I—?” He couldn’t make himself say it.

“If you’re convicted and sentenced?”

Peter flinched back from the words, but nodded.

“Hm,” said his lawyer. “I don’t actually know the answer to that question. Adult trans prisoners who have come out in prison have been able transfer facilities, but it’s often a very time-consuming and fraught process. I just…I don’t know, Peter. If I had to guess, it’s one of those things that the courts haven’t actually decided yet. You do have a right, under New York law, and under city law, to be housed in a facility that conforms with your chosen gender. Whether that right will actually be respected without a lawsuit, and whether prosecutors in the future might use your initial choice to pen you in…” She shrugged, helpless. “I don’t know.”

She took a breath. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, and I won’t force it, but the women’s floor would probably be safer.”

Peter wanted to puke. He slumped in his seat, cradling his head in his hands. This sucked. This really and truly sucked. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice said, _you could just…go. Run. Escape the cops, break out, be Spider-Man_. But leaving meant leaving everything. Meant leaving Midtown and Ned and MJ and the kids. He could never be Peter Parker again if he left. And if there was even a chance…

He’d stay. For now.

He thought about it, worst-case scenarios spinning through his brain. “Boys,” he finally said. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to, but worst came to worst, he could hold his own.

Ms. Takahashi looked tired and sad at his declaration, but true to her word, she didn’t force it. “Boys it is, then,” she said.

* * *

Ms. Rhee and Ms. Takahashi stayed with him in the back of the police car for the drive to Crossroads Juvenile Center in Brownsville, Brooklyn. They got there around 2:00am, and the cops couldn’t drag him out of the car and bump his head on the door the way they had at the precinct when both of them were there watching, flanking Peter on either side. It was kind of funny, two women even shorter than Peter was acting as Spider-Man’s, like, bodyguards, but it was really nice too. Aunt May, he decided, would have liked Ms. Rhee and Ms. Takahashi. Their presence made Peter want to start crying again, but in a good way. But also in a bad way, because everything was fucked? Feelings were confusing.

Then they had to leave him at the door, with promises that they’d return tomorrow. “Just…please,” said Ms. Takahashi. “Try not to get in any more trouble. I know it’s hard, but any disciplinary action here will be written up and will actively hurt your case.”

Ms. Rhee clapped him on the shoulder. “You got this, Peter. We’ll see you tomorrow, and I’m gonna follow up with the other kids, okay?”

Peter nodded, and couldn’t meet either of their eyes.

Two police officers marched him to the intake desk, where a tired, middle-aged woman was reading a book. She looked up when they entered. “That the Parker kid?” she asked, eyeing him up and down with obvious disdain.

Peter cringed back under her gaze. He wanted to be brave, to fight back, to look her dead in the eye and match her disgust with a look of his own, but that was a Spider-Man thing to do, and Peter was feeling pretty damn disgusting and small and stupid right now, so he just flushed and squirmed and looked at his shoes and let the officers do all the talking.

“Tonya and Bobby are on intake. You can drop him off there for the admit.” She jerked her thumb at a doorway behind her. “They shoulda done most of the paperwork already from when you called ahead.”

So Peter was shuffled off to intake. Which was…not great, yes, but not as bad as it could have been? He was pat down and released from the handcuffs; then there was an interview, in which Peter said nothing and the police talked with the intake person; Peter was informed he could call a parent or guardian if he wished (he did not); the cops left; and then Peter was asked to strip and turn in his clothes and any other possessions he had on him (he did not have any), and then he was searched again, more thoroughly. That was absolutely terrible and terrifying, and Peter felt gross and small and helpless, but nothing happened and he was ushered into a shower, which was lukewarm and had horrible water pressure, but some kind of semblance of privacy. Meaning the guards turned their backs. They passed him new clothes—gray sweatpants, navy blue T-shirt, pullover sweatshirt with no strings or hood, boxers, socks, and crocs—and he got the whole process over with as quickly as he could.

The officers escorting him gave him a once over when he emerged from the shower, clothed in his new prison sweats. Peter had been scared, earlier in the night, of being on the receiving end of certain kinds of looks. This wasn’t that. It wasn’t sadistic, or lustful, or even contemptful. The look that he got, Peter couldn’t quite explain it, but it was like he wasn’t human. Like he wasn’t even worth an emotion to waste.

They took his mugshot and then escorted him to another room, where he was introduced to a guy who was supposed to be his case manager and explain how the rules worked. He was a “resource” for Peter to use. Which was a joke.

The case manager went over the rules; he clearly had a spiel he was used to reciting, and Peter listened to it blankly, trying not to yawn. “Wake-up’s at 6:00: you wake up, make your bed, clean your room, open your door. Your door must be open by 6:30am, and it stays open until lights out. Then you wait for an officer to let you out of your room and go to the cafeteria. You stand up when the officer enters the room, feet flat on the floor, hands behind your back, right hand grabbing your left wrist, got it? No gang signs, no sudden movements. You will address all staff as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am.’ You will keep your hands behind your back when moving through the building, right hand holding your left wrist. If you are moving with other inmates, you will walk in a single file line with your hands behind your back, without making noise or talking. Breakfast is open from 6:30 to 7:30. When you are done with breakfast, you may be escorted back to your room or to the showers. You will take a shower sometime between 6:30 and 8:15, and will receive soap and shampoo at shower times. School begins at 8:30. Unless you are in court or in another mandated activity, you will attend school from 8:30 to 11:30. Lunch is from 11:30 to to 12:30….” And so on, and so on.

Peter listened to it all, accepted a pamphlet that was handed to him, and shook his head when the guy asked if he had any questions. He probably did have questions, but he couldn’t make himself care right now.

“You will answer all questions put to you by staff verbally and respectfully,” the case manager reminded him.

“No questions, sir,” said Peter, quietly. Funny, how he’d gotten so much practice for this at the Caldwells’.

“Hmph.” Apparently he decided that was good enough, and Peter was finally allowed to be escorted to his cell. Sorry, his “room.”

It was a cell, though, maybe seven feet by three feet, just large enough for a twin-sized cot and a desk-shelf thing and Peter. No toilet, but they showed him where a button was he could press if he needed to use the bathroom or there was a medical emergency. “Don’t abuse it, inmate,” said the officer.

He stared at Peter, clearly expecting a response.

“No, sir,” said Peter. “I won’t.” _Please, just let me sleep_. It was close to 4:00am.

Finally, he was left alone. He collapsed on the cot and he either slept or his mind went blank. He wasn’t sure which, but he had no memory of the two hours between when he lay down and when the blaring siren of the wake-up alarm drilled into his skull and forced him under the bed, curled up in pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The law that I mentioned above that made it so that minors could not be held in adult jails is a real law that was passed in 2017 as part of New York State’s fiscal budget, and started going into effect in October of 2018 (this story is set in an alternative 2018/soon-to-be 2019). It is commonly called he ‘Raise the Age’ law. Before that, New York was one of only two states that automatically prosecuted 16- and 17-year-olds as adults.
> 
> A lot of the impetus to pass this law came after the death of Kalief Browder in 2015. Kalief was a sixteen-year old black kid who was arrested for stealing a backpack. He was placed in Rikers, an adult jail, where he was held without trial for over three years and denied the opportunity to pay bail. He maintained his innocence the whole time and refused to plead guilty. Eventually, the charges against him were dropped, but he was in jail for three years, subjected to violence by the guards and inmates in prison, and was in solitary confinement for approximately two of those years. He eventually committed suicide after his release. More information about Kalief is available [here](https://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/kalief-browder-1993-2015/) (tw for all of the above, but especially suicide specifics), [here](https://www.nytimes.com/2015/06/10/nyregion/after-a-shocking-death-a-renewed-plea-for-bail-reform-in-new-york-state.html) (detailing many of the systemic injustices that led to this tragedy), and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BkPRtkEXg4&feature=emb_title) (Kalief's brother remembering him and advocating for Rikers to be shut down).
> 
> While the raise the age law was a small step in the right direction, there are so many problems with how we incarcerate youth (and people generally, but especially kids) in this country and this state. Here is some reporting specifically about abuse at juvenile facilities in New York in the last few years: [x](https://www.wsj.com/articles/violence-is-down-but-still-rampant-1433120947), [x](https://www.nbcnewyork.com/news/local/sex-abuse-allegations-at-nyc-juvenile-detention-center_new-york/1993627/), [x](https://www.politico.com/states/new-york/albany/story/2018/07/26/age-was-raised-but-will-juveniles-move-to-mini-rikers-531037/), [x](https://brooklyneagle.com/articles/2019/12/03/use-of-force-by-staff-against-youth-offenders-continues-to-rise/), [x](https://bronxjusticenews.com/exclusive-abuse-claims-violence-plague-nyc-youth-jails-amid-pandemic/)
> 
> I also feel the need to acknowledge again here how fundamentally broken our system is, and how it especially targets, devalues, and dehumanizes the lives of Black people specifically. Black Lives Matter. Incarcerated People’s Lives Matter. You can find ways to get involved, donate time or money (including ways to donate money by watching ads/streaming music/playing games!) here: https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/


	20. II-3. Kids Who Can't Be Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhee does her job. Peter remains in juvenile detention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!! But will definitely be updating somewhat more sporadically.
> 
> TW for racism (big one), mentioned emotional abuse & solitary confinement, people not believing victims of abuse, systems being the worst (do I even need to keep warning for this?), lack of heat, implied insufficient food

After dropping Peter off at Crossroads, Rhee got an Uber to drive her back to the 103rd so she could pick up her car. She couldn’t really afford it, but there were three fucking transfers if she was going to take public transportation, and she really couldn’t be assed to deal with that at two fucking thirty o’clock in the goddamn morning. Still, the only reason she could do it was because Marie split it with her. The roads were so stupidly constructed that it wasn’t even that far out of Marie’s way to her apartment in Astoria—only a fifteen minute detour—even though the precinct and Marie’s apartment were practically in opposite directions.

In the car, she called the caseworkers for the other children who’d been placed with the Caldwells. She didn’t get any response. Straight to voicemail—their phones were off. Neither had bothered to email her either, which was incredibly infuriating given that they’d promised to do so when arrangements for the night had been made. They didn’t have to, technically—this wasn’t her case—but God, she deserved some professional fucking courtesy, didn’t she?

She checked with the officers at the precinct, who either had no idea what was going on or refused to tell her, and stomped back down to her car. She turned it on, idled in her parking spot for a moment. The other kids weren’t her problem. She wasn’t their caseworker. She wasn’t even entitled to any information on them. It was three in the morning, and most people she could even ask about this were probably asleep and wouldn’t be contactable until the morning.

But.

She’d told Peter she would check in on them. She could keep her promise and go to sleep now, do it in the morning. It would probably be easier, more effective.

But.

She groaned into the steering wheel and drove to her office, pulled the files for the kids, and then drove to the hospital.

“Hi,” she introduced herself at the desk. “I’m a social worker with OCFS who is involved in an adjacent case with their foster brother, and was wondering if it would be possible to talk with any staff on duty who were involved in the treatment of Simon Michael Presswater and Abayomi Zacharias Freedman? They were both admitted earlier tonight. And also any information you had on who they were released to?”

It took a long time to work her way through the bureaucratic chain of command. Hospitals took HIPAA very seriously, and the privacy of minors even more seriously, and she wasn’t either kid’s caseworker. Rhee dozed in the waiting room as the morning wore on into actual morning. She tried the caseworkers again at 8:00am, but heard no response.

Finally, at 8:30, a middle-aged woman in a doctor’s coat and scrubs came out to meet her. “Imani Johnson,” she introduced herself. “I was the attending earlier tonight, and I heard you wanted to talk to me.”

She sat down, and Rhee explained the situation. Dr. Johnson listened closely and nodded along, her face studiously blank.

“Mm-hm,” she said when Rhee had finished. “I understand that you’re doing your best to look after these kids, I really do. But the hospital can’t release any medical records to unrelated parties, or even confirm or deny whether a certain patient was admitted to the hospital or not.”

Before Rhee could plead her case, the doctor cut her off. “I’m a mandatory reporter. So, _if_ there were a case where I suspected abuse, I would’ve filed a report. I’m pretty sure you can access those on your end, once they’ve gone through the system.” Something in her eyes told Rhee that the doctor _had_ filed a report.

Dr. Johnson continued, carefully picking through her words. “If I were you, here’s what I would do: I would talk with the social workers assigned to those kids. They would be better situated to address any concerns you may or may not have about releasing them back to the foster parents.”

Rhee froze. “They were released-”

“The hospital cannot release any medical records to unrelated parties,” Dr. Johnson interrupted, “or confirm or deny any identifying information. This entire discussion is, of course, purely hypothetical, based on a generic scenario.”

Rhee nodded against the bitter taste in her mouth. “Of course,” she echoed. “I won’t take up any more of your time then. Thank you, doctor.” And they both knew Rhee was thanking her for more than her time.

* * *

Rhee spent her morning doing _emergency management_ , a.k.a., yelling at people who should’ve known better and _done their fucking jobs._ At the _very fucking least,_ they should’ve emailed her that they were releasing the kids she had _specifically fucking asked_ them to keep her updated on to the _specific fucking people_ that those kids should not have been released to.

The only silver lining—if a gross miscarriage of justice could be called a silver lining—was that Peter’s arraignment was set for the morning of the 23rd. Her boy was spending three days in juvie that he shouldn’t be, but it gave her more time to try and gather any evidence of abuse that _might_ be enough to convince a judge to give him the benefit of the doubt and grant him bail. It was a long shot. He was a teenage delinquent with no family ties who’d already been called to family court once for running away, and had an even longer OCFS record of unexplained disappearances. Plus whatever his foster parents would say. He was, by any stretch of the definition, a flight risk.

She had Marie give her apologies to Peter—yes, she knew she’d promised to visit him today, but she was pretty sure the kid would forgive her for dealing with this shitshow instead. A brief phone call through Marie confirmed that suspicion.

In the end, she got both kids out of the house and into new placements by 4:00pm. She also made several new enemies, including, but not limited to: both Caldwells; the Caldwells’ lawyers; both of the kids’ lawyers; both of the kids’ caseworkers; both of the kids’ caseworkers’ bosses; Rhee’s own boss, although that was less of a new enmity and more of a long-suffering forbearance; and—the cherry on top—both of the fucking kids themselves.

Rhee didn’t care. Her job wasn’t for anyone to like her. Her job was to keep kids safe. And the longer the day went on, the more she was sure she’d made the right decision in removing them.

Simon went to the Davises—the truly lovely couple that had taken in Peter on an emergency basis a few times in between homes—and she got the other kid into a group home in Astoria that was pretty decent as those things went.

She didn’t get much out of Simon in the brief opportunity she had to see him. He was too upset, too traumatized, too confused and disoriented and wary of new people. He kept asking for Zach. He didn’t once ask for either of the Caldwells. He’d somehow figured out that Rhee was the reason he was being separated from his brother, and he hated her for it. He tried to bite her. Rhee didn’t hold it against him. She was the scary lady taking him away from everyone and everything he knew.

There wasn’t anything Rhee could do about that except trust that he was going to a place where they actually cared about him. He ended up going to the Davises kicking and screaming the whole time.

The other kid, though—the aforementioned _Zach_? That was worse.

The kid sat in her office, in the street-corner armchair, stock-still and silent. His head was bowed, his gaze downturned, fixed upon her desk. Every inch of him was tense.

Abayomi Zacharias Freedman, age 10. Rhee was struck, looking at the kid dwarfed in the faded old armchair, how similar he was to Peter. Two dead parents, a dead aunt, a protective streak a mile wide. A record of being a handful, causing trouble. He’d reported the Caldwells when he’d first moved in with them, but those records had been sealed when the complaint was found to be without merit. Rhee hadn’t been able to see those records even _existed_ until she submitted another formal complaint on the kids’ behalves. But after that first complaint?—nothing. No records. No follow-ups, no check-ins, no medical information, therapy, any of it. Nothing. Rhee was ready to throttle a bitch.

Still, she made herself gentle for the child in front of her. “Your worker tell you what’s going on?”

“Where’s Simon?” the kid snapped back, ignored her question.

“Your brother is safe, kid, I promise.”

His skinny hands clenched into fists at his side. “Where is he.”

“I found him a new home, where they will actually take proper care of him. I promise you, he’s safe.”

“You don’t know that.” The kid kept his gaze steadily locked on her desk.

Rhee sighed, nodded. “I know that you don’t have any reason to trust me. You and Simon and Peter have really been let down by the system. But I promise, we’re trying to fix it.”

The kid’s mouth tightened. “No, you’re not. You’re just making it worse. Simon needs me. He doesn’t get a lot of things, and if I’m not there, he’s gonna be so confused and scared and, and-” He swallowed back sobs. “Please, you gotta let me stay with Simon. He’s my brother, and I take care of him, and—and— you just need to send us back before things get worse. I can handle it, but it’ll be _so much worse_ if you make them wait, and it’s bad enough that _Peter_ ”—there was a flash of anger and hatred in the kid’s voice at Peter’s name—“did what he did and the police are involved, but, please, you just need to send—I need—Simon needs—” He kept trying to speak, even through his hyperventilating.

Alarmed, Rhee circled around her desk to kneel in front of him. “Hey, kid,” she said, soft. “You’re safe. Breathe with me, okay? In”—she counted to eight—“and out. In and out. You’re safe. Simon is safe. Peter is safe. In and out.” She kept enough space between them so that the kid wouldn’t feel trapped, didn’t reach to touch him, but she forced her eyes into his own panicked ones and made him breathe with her until he calmed somewhat.

“I’m not—” he wiped tears from his cheeks. “I’m not a baby.”

“Never said you were.” Rhee smiled sadly at him. “Okay, kid, let’s start this all over. New beginnings for everyone. I’m Rhee. I’m a social worker with the city of New York, my full name is Harietta Lee Isaacs, but everyone calls me Rhee. And I am _here to help you_. I believe that you and Simon and Peter were being abused by the Caldwells, and I am going to do everything I can to keep you all safe, okay?”

The kid didn’t speak, but his eyes said he didn’t believe her. That was fine. It would take time before he could trust her. She knew how to do this.

“So, I’m Rhee,” she repeated again. “And you’re Abayomi. Or Zacharias? Zach? Which one do you prefer? Or should I call you something else?”

The kid sat bolt upright and stared at her with wide eyes. He mumbled something too quiet for her to hear. She barely caught the end of it, which sounded something like “—get in trouble.”

“Why would anybody get in trouble?”

The kid shifted, looked away from her, mumbled again. This time she caught most of it. “—not okay to use that name.”

“You don’t want me to use a certain name?” she asked. “That’s fine. Just tell me what name you do what me to use and I’ll use it.”

“No,” the kid huffed out, looking supremely frustrated. “That’s not—It’s just, you can’t use _that name_ because it’s hard to say and it isn’t respectable or professional, so it’s not okay to use it.”

A wave of cold fury rushed over Rhee. “Says who?” she asked, keeping her rage away from the frightened child only by Herculean effort.

The kid, Abayomi, shrugged. “My caseworker couldn’t say it, so she just introduced me to everyone as Zach and the Caldwells got mad if I ever asked them to use it, because it’s too much trouble—”

“Kid,” Rhee interrupted. “Abayomi, if you want to be. _Your name_ is not too much trouble. Your name is _never_ too much trouble. It is a beautiful, professional, wonderful name. For a wonderful kid. And _no one_ should have ever told you otherwise. I am so sorry that they did. They were wrong. Abayomi is an amazing name. Would you like me to use it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, it was in a rough whisper. “My parents called me Abayomi, when they tucked me in at night.” The barest hint of a smile crossed his face. “Most of the time, it was Yomi. But when they tucked me in, Abayomi. And when I was trouble. Then it was ‘Abayomi Zacharias Freedman.’”

The cadence of his voice changed as it lilted over his name, and Rhee could hear the Yoruba in it then. Rhee swallowed against the sudden wave of emotion that threatened to choke her. She’d read the kid’s file, of course, but she was suddenly hit with an imagined memory of Abayomi’s parents: the young man from Philadelphia who’d gone to Nigeria to find his roots, and come back with a wife, settled in New York where his sister lived, the three of them bringing memory and family and _love_ from their homeland through their child’s name, spoken with tenderness and joy.

It was a beautiful imagining, and horrific. _Hadn’t they taken enough?_

Rhee brushed aside her imaginings. There was a child in front of her who needed her to listen, not play pretend in her own brain. _“_ Would you be more comfortable with Yomi, then? Or Abayomi, or”—she couldn’t force _Zach_ out of her mouth—“or something else?”

The kid hesitated. “Yomi.” He mouthed the name, but no sound actually came out. His eyes were terrified, but hopeful.

“Yomi,” Rhee echoed back at him, trying to project all the certainty and love she could. “I’m so happy that I get to meet you, Yomi, and I’m so sad that all of these bad things have happened to you. You’ve been so brave and strong. Do you think you could be brave for just a little bit longer, and help me figure out what’s happened?”

They talked for another half-hour. It was clear the kid had been abused. It was also clear that he was terrified. He wasn’t ready to talk, especially not with Rhee, who’d forced him apart from Simon. As far as she could tell, the older boy was Yomi’s whole life. The only person he actually considered family. Which was a whole other level of troubling, but wasn’t a problem for today.

Yomi wouldn’t be testifying anytime soon. But he would be getting a new caseworker. A Black one. Not Rhee, she already had too much bad history with the kid. But she drew up a list of good folks in her mind, she pushed down her rage and hurt, and she made it happen.

* * *

Over the next two days, she slowly pieced together a file documenting the extent of the Caldwells’ abuse. She felt not-quite-human as she did so. As if she’d turned off the emotion-processing part of her brain, and was just _action_. A robot who was programmed with only one mission: protect these children. These three children who had suffered so much, and been forsaken. These three children who couldn’t afford her human weakness. She had to keep going, Terminator-style. And so she did.

She talked to Peter, to the Caldwells, to Yomi and Simon. She talked to Peter’s friends, to the neighbors. Marie helped. It wasn’t enough.

Everything was he-said, she-said stuff. Almost no documentation. And when the she-said side was the word of children, all of whom were scared to speak, one of whom had a cognitive disability, it was more just he-said. _He_ being the Caldwells. No other side considered. It was infuriating. But she kept going.

Imani Johnson—the doctor who’d spoken to Rhee— _had_ indeed filed a report of suspected child abuse. But it was just suspected. The cut on Simon’s ear from the clippers—that was the only _physical_ sign of something wrong, and that was easily explained away by a child with a cognitive disability throwing a fit. Dr. Johnson had marked several indicators of suspected emotional abuse, but Rhee knew as well as anyone that courts rarely cared about non-physical abuse.

She tried to find some other adults who might have witnessed something. Peter’s teachers all confirmed that he’d seemed tired and withdrawn the past two weeks, and that he had turned in all of his work in hand-written format, which was weird. But not exactly evidence of abuse. He was still getting his work done, no one had noticed any bruises (though there wouldn’t have been bruises), he had food money for lunch. She kept going.

Yomi’s new caseworker gave her a new write-up on the Caldwells, lips thin and angry. “It’s not official yet,” he said. “Nothing official can move that quickly, you know that. But the way they systematically degraded and dehumanized those kids--” He literally _hissed_. “Off the record? They’re fucking evil. They wouldn’t let him use his _own name_. Yomi says they waited a few months after he reported them for the attention to die down, and then they _locked him in a closet._ He’s not sure how long it was, but it was at least a few days. _Days_ , Rhee. No light, no human contact. He was let out once a _day_ to use the bathroom. That is literal torture, Rhee. On a fucking eight-year-old! I’m revoking their license to foster, obviously. And then I’m getting them _arrested_ if I can. Good luck to your boy, Rhee. He did a good thing, getting them out of there. Even though he could’ve done it more safely and both of those kids hate him now. Tell him, from me, that he did good.”

Rhee nodded, his fury echoed in the tight line of her jaw, and kept going.

Steven—Peter’s mentor from NYU—mentioned that Peter had talked to him, but that he hadn’t mentioned anything that would rise to the level of abuse. Steven had just assumed Peter was having difficulty adjusting to a stricter household.

“Honestly, I kinda got the impression that he’d only reached out to me because he wanted to use me to sneak out without the Caldwells knowing. Like, he was kind of pushing that I could cover for him in exchange for a favor or something, but I honestly didn’t see any flags that pointed to outright abuse as opposed to his established running-away problem. I wish I’d pushed him a little harder, looked a little deeper…” He shook his head, eyes troubled.

Rhee rubbed her temples. She wouldn’t put it past Peter to try and trick or sweet-talk his mentor into letting him sneak out—the kid had certainly proved trouble enough in the past—but it was clear she wasn’t going to get any useful corroboration from Steven.

And with that, she exhausted her options. Steven had been the last person she could think of. Rhee and Marie scraped together all the evidence they’d gathered into a too-thin file. Marie called around to her law school friends, and Peter got a public defender who was willing and able to give him more individualized attention.

And that was it. That was all they could do.

* * *

The 23rd came both too quickly and too slowly. Too quickly, because she could not gather any more evidence. Too slowly, because every minute that passed was another minute that a child was being held in a cold and unfeeling prison.

Still. The 23rd came, and with it Peter’s arraignment hearing. She presented the gathered evidence to the judge. It ended up being mostly Rhee’s own observations, which wasn’t nothing. But it wasn’t enough.

Peter was denied bail. He’d be housed in a juvenile facility until trial.

Rhee had the impression that it didn’t matter if she’d presented the Caldwells themselves admitting to the abuse; Peter was still a flight risk.

The next step would be presenting Peter’s case to a grand jury. That wouldn’t happen until after New Year’s though. The courts were basically closed except for emergencies over the holidays.

After the hearing, D’Angelo—the criminal defense lawyer that Marie had scrounged up through her law school connections—asked Peter if he understood what was going on, Peter just stared at him, gaze heavy, and nodded. Shrugged. Stared straight ahead, and curled up into himself.

Peter didn’t say a single word from the time the judge spoke to when he was loaded into the back of a cop car to be driven back to Crossroads. He just stared, expression closed-off and dazed and miserable.

Rhee wished she could say she had hope for the boy. Instead, there was just an aching sorrow inside of her. _He could have been everything_.

There were success stories, sure. Of kids who’d made it out of the system. Of kids who survived detention and went on to thrive.

But stories were just stories, and they didn’t fill the emptiness. _He could have been a child._

Peter didn’t have that luxury.

None of them had that luxury.

* * *

Rhee didn’t see Peter for a few days after his arraignment.

She spent Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day, and the 27th dealing with a series of non-Peter emergencies. Other children didn’t stop getting hurt just because one she’d developed a soft spot for had been arrested.

So Rhee put Peter’s case on the back burner, checking in occasionally via text. Rhee now had a text chain that comprised of herself, Marie, and Peter’s two friends. As far as she knew, they were the only people Peter had left in the world.

Marie and Peter’s friend Michelle visited him on Christmas Eve.

That day, well after visiting hours ended, they heard from Peter’s other friend, Ned. His dad had died.

Ned and his mom spent Christmas in the visitor’s section of Crossroads Detention Facility. Then he stopped responding to texts.

Michelle took the visitor’s shift on the 26th and 27th alone.

Around 11:00am on the 28th, Rhee got a phonecall from Marie.

“You have a minute?” the young lawyer asked. “It’s semi-time sensitive, but _technically_ not important in the scheme of things. No one’s in danger.”

Rhee had been buying an cheese-and-egg bagel from a street cart to serve as both breakfast and lunch, so she was about as free as she got these days. “Yeah, go ahead.”

“Has his school been notified? Peter’s, that is.” The lawyer clarified unnecessarily. They didn’t have any other shared clients at the moment.

“Hmm.” Rhee considered it as she chewed, walking quickly against the icy wind. “They know something’s up, because I was investigating the Caldwells and called his principal and his teachers. But I haven’t submitted any official notice to the school that he was arrested yet, because their offices are closed for the holidays, and I didn’t mention that part when I was talking to them. Honestly,” she admitted as she let herself in from the cold, “I was hoping that we could somehow make this go away before school opened up again, so that he could keep his scholarship and continue attending Midtown. I know that’s a fever-dream, but—”

“Yeah,” She could feel Marie’s nod of agreement through the phone. “I get it. You’re not obligated to report until the school is officially open again, and if by some miracle we can…well, we can keep trying at least, until then. But I need to access the kid’s locker before then. Any chance you could get me into the school in the next two days _without_ a subpoena or a court order or reporting to the school? Kid gave me written permission to access his locker and the code, so that part’s fine. It’s just the building I need to get into.”

Rhee frowned. She probably could, and she didn’t think Marie would be doing anything _unethical_ , but…that was a weird request. “Why?” she asked.

“Has the kid told you about the Stark Competition?”

It clicked into place. “Oh,” said Rhee.

“Yup. His prototype is in his locker, apparently. Two small pieces of fabric, where he…synthesized the thread and knit it together? I think. Or not, knitting, it was something that wasn’t knitting, but was like knitting, but the kid was talking a mile a minute about chemical equations and using words I could not understand when he gave me the paperwork this morning.”

“This morning?” That wasn’t visiting hours.

“Michelle couldn’t make it this evening, so I was supposed to take the visitor’s shift, but I just had a last-minute meeting come up that I can’t miss during visiting hours. So I pulled Peter out of school to ‘discuss some legal stuff’ and check in on him. He gave me the report that he’d handwritten for the Stark Competition and asked me to send it in along with the prototype. Figure it’s the least I can do.”

“Huh.” God, Marie was amazing. Taking time out of her day just to make sure the kid didn’t go a day alone. And following through about the Stark Competition, which meant _so fucking much_ to Peter. Even if the rest of them couldn’t really understand it. Rhee coughed to cover up the sudden squishy warm feelings inside her. “Ned’s still MIA?”

“Michelle said that he’s grounded, and his electronics have been confiscated. She didn’t tell me how she knew this, or _why_ he was grounded, but I get the sense it has something to do with Peter. Michelle was upset. Or, well, I _think_ she was upset. I may have been projecting.”

“Hard to tell with that one,” Rhee muttered, mind whirling through the implications of what Marie had just said. “Shit.”

“Yup. So, locker access?”

“Yeah,” said Rhee. “Yeah. I’ll make some calls and get back to you.”

Rhee didn’t have the time to travel in to Manhattan that day, but she arranged it so Marie could meet Principal Morita before her meeting that afternoon so that they could “pick up Peter’s stuff, since he’d been removed from the Caldwells.” Truth, but not the whole truth. They were rapidly approaching the point where they’d have to come clean, but in the meantime, Rhee prayed for miracle.

She also _made_ the time to visit Peter that afternoon.

* * *

Peter didn’t look good. Had he always been so scrawny? She didn’t think so. She didn’t think it was even possible for someone to lose as much weight as it seemed like he had in the week he’d been in detention. Maybe it was the lighting. Fluorescent bulbs cast everything into a sickly glow, making Peter’s cheekbones and the bags under his eyes more pronounced.

He sat across from her and waved through the plexiglass, pulling up his feet to his chest. He brought his hands to his mouth, breathing on them for warmth in the crisp air. It wasn’t quite as cold in here as it was outside, but Rhee didn’t feel the need to take off her winter coat either.

“How you doing, kid?”

He shrugged.

“You getting enough to eat?”

Another shrug.

“Sleep?”

Shrug.

Rhee sighed. “Bad talking day?” she asked. “The therapist in there said you’d gone nonverbal sometimes. That’s okay. It’s a lot sometimes.”

Peter raised his eyebrows and sent her a _look_. Rhee snorted, knowing exactly what he was referring to. The therapist had labelled him as hostile and uncooperative, and had no sympathy for Peter’s trauma.

“Fuck that noise,” said Rhee. “Speak if you want to, don’t if you don’t. We can just sit here in silence if you want.”

Peter nodded, scooched his chair closer to the glass. “Thanks.” His voice was scratchy, but there.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Rhee resisted the urge to check her phone, and instead leaned up against the glass and hummed tunelessly under her breath.

“There’s just not much to say.” Peter broke the silence.

Rhee hummed in response.

“It just…it takes all my energy just to follow the rules and be polite and not get in more trouble. I’m really trying, Ms. Rhee. I’m really, _really_ trying.”

“I know you are, kiddo. And I’m sorry it’s so hard for you.”

He wrapped his arms around his knees. “After all that, there’s just not enough left over for words.”

“That sounds really hard, Peter.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “It’s just…it’s just for one more week, though. Ms. Takahashi and Mr. Michaels, they said once the courts open up again, they could probably work out a deal, and then, hopefully, I can…” He nodded to himself, hugged his knees closer. “One more week. Or if they can’t work out a deal, then-” He cut himself off. “One more week. I can do one more week.”

Rhee covered her mouth, trying to hide the growing pity on her face. “One week at a time, kid,” she said, unable and unwilling to give him false hope. “You’re tough. You can—”

“Feet flat on the floor, inmate!” A harsh bark interrupted them.

Peter winced and uncurled himself to put his feet on the floor. “Sorry, sir.” Rhee was horrifyingly impressed by how even and meek his voice sounded while his face was contorted with absolute hatred.

He waited for the guard to look away, then hunched over his knees, stuck his hands in his armpits and rocked gently back and forth, slowly enough that it wouldn’t draw anyone’s eye.

Rhee felt sick. “You got heat in there, Peter?” she asked softly.

Peter scowled. “Technically. There were complaints, but the _independent inspector_ ”—and wasn’t _that_ title tinted with scorn—“cleared it as ‘sufficient’ yesterday.”

“Jesus.” Rhee closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through clenched teeth.

“Mm.”

“If we got you a coat, or another sweatshirt—”

Peter was already shaking his head. “Not allowed.”

“That’s fucking inhumane.” Rhee thought she’d whispered that under her breathe, too low for anyone to hear, especially through a plexiglass barrier, but Peter huffed in agreement.

“Kid, I am so sorry you have to deal with this.”

Peter shrugged. “Not your fault. Mine. I messed everything up.”

“You were trying to do a good thing. You _did_ do a good thing. I told you what Yomi’s new worker said, yeah? Yes, it wasn’t the best way to go about things, but you saved those boys from a very bad situation. And yourself.”

“Oh yeah, I’m real saved from a bad situation, Ms. Rhee.” He rolled his eyes. “Sure, I was _trying_ to help, but that doesn’t matter. I _didn’t_ help. I just made things worse. I didn’t even know Yomi’s real name, I didn’t even _ask_ him, I just went along with the Caldwells and called him—and now he doesn’t even have Simon, and Simon doesn’t have him, and he hates me and he’s right to because that’s _all my fault_.”

“Peter—” Rhee’s voice broke. “That is not your fault. You were abused. You and Yomi and Simon, you were all abused. And _that is not your fault_. All of this, it’s on the Caldwells. It’s on us for not catching anything sooner. Okay? You are not the problem here.”

Shrug. “If you say so.”

“I do,” said Rhee. “And so does Marie, and from what I know of them, your aunt and uncle would be so proud of you, and they would not want you to blame yourself.”

Peter swallowed against tears.

“You’ve got people in your corner, kid, okay? So don’t go giving up on yourself. You’ve got me and Marie and Michelle and Ned—”

“Ned’s not allowed to see me,” Peter blurted out.

Rhee blinked. “What?”

“Christmas…” Peter gestured helplessly. “It was goodbye. I’m a ‘bad influence,’ and Mrs. Leeds can’t lose her only son too. Besides, anyone who’s too close to me just ends up getting hurt. Or killed. It’s better this way.”

“That’s some fucking bullshit.” The words were out of Rhee’s mouth faster than thought. “ _Ned_ told you this? We talking about the same Ned, here? The one who spent three hours tracking me down from his father’s hospital room because he was worried about you? Who called me three times a day for updates? The Ned who you have ‘impromptu sleepovers’ with at least once a week?” She didn’t say that she knew Ned was covering for whatever it was Peter was doing. Not when all conversations here were recorded. “ _That_ Ned?”

Peter flushed. “Well, _he_ didn’t say it, but—”

“But nothing, kid. Ned still wants to be your friend?”

Peter nodded guiltily.

“Then he’s your friend. And believe me when I say, that boy’s in your corner. And you deserve it. D’you hear me, Peter? You _deserve_ friendship, and love, and people who support you. And you’ve got us. Okay? You’ve got us.”

Peter rubbed his eyes. “I think I’m done talking now, Ms. Rhee.”

“Okay, kiddo. You want me to stay for the rest of the visiting hour?”

A nod.

“Okay. You mind if I read?”

He shook his head, so she pulled out her phone and did a quick Google search. “I think you’ll like this one,” she said.

He perked up. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to, if it’s okay with you.”

His face did a complicated mushy thing, and she wished she could hug him through the glass. He nodded and settled back into himself.

Rhee waited for him to still before beginning. “The City Born Great,” she intoned. “By N.K. Jemisin.”

It had been a long time since Rhee had read anything out loud. Especially fiction. Not since high school, probably. But she pushed down her discomfort and cleared her throat. “I sing the city,” she read, “Fucking city. I stand on the rooftop of a building I don’t live in and spread my arms and tighten my middle and yell nonsense ululations at the construction site that blocks my view…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The City Born Great is a fantastic short story by N.K. Jemisin. Back-cover summary: "Like all great metropolises before it, when a city gets big enough, old enough, it must be born; but there are ancient enemies who cannot tolerate new life. Thus New York will live or die by the efforts of a reluctant midwife...and how well he can learn to sing the city's mighty song."
> 
> The whole thing is available to read for free here: [tor.com/2016/09/28/the-city-born-great](https://www.tor.com/2016/09/28/the-city-born-great/)


	21. II-4. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter’s time in juvie (Part I).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Peter’s time in juvie before the court proceedings was supposed to be one chapter. One. This was supposed to be a ~1k word lead-up to the stuff that happens w/ Ned on Christmas. I was considering not writing it at all and just skipping over it. But now it’s written and it’s almost 7k words and I don’t want to edit it, so…enjoy(?) this bonus chapter, full of OCs. Because I literally can’t do anything except writing OCs. 
> 
> **TW for:** sensory overload; sleep deprivation; prison system; discussions of racism; some casual misogyny
> 
>  **Note:** I have very minorly edited chapter 19 to make it so that there are no sinks in the rooms at Crossroads. This is because I did some more research on the facility, and, unlike some other juvenile facilities I was originally basing it on, there are no sinks in the room at Crossroads (see: [picture of a room at Crossroads](https://adq631j7v3x1shge52cot6m1-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/NEWS-CrossroadsIMG_9437_EDITED-771x578.jpg)). That is the only thing I have changed. It is not plot-relevant at all. It was just bugging me.

Pain. That was the only thing Peter was aware of. Just pain, white-hot, searing, _screaming_ in his head, like someone had taken broken glass and jammed it through his brain, except it just kept going and going and going and going, he needed to tear his fucking brain out, he needed to stop the screeching pain—

Peter dropped. He panted, wide-eyed and disoriented, and looked around. Unfamiliar surroundings, cramped and narrow. Dingy, with a sickly teal border painted across the bottom of the wall. One tiny window, glass too thick and frosted-over to see through. He could tell it was still dark outside, though. Cot bolted to the floor with a thin mattress and blanket. Desk across the way. The air was chilly and stale.

The pain had stopped, but the aftershocks of it still echoed around in him. What the hell had that been? He pushed himself off the bed, backed into a corner while he tried to get his bearings. He was in prison; he remembered that much. Juvie, detention, whatever. He was in fucking _prison_. Peter swayed. He vaguely remembered his intake from last night and a long list of orders. Something about grabbing your wrist? …That couldn’t be right.

A sharp burst of that same goddawful _pain_. Peter jumped, clutching his ears, and it was over. Alarm. It was a fucking alarm. Peter hadn’t slept properly in weeks, his senses were a wreck, and he was so on the edge of his sanity he might have fallen off it. Ow. Alarm plus spidey-senses plus tired equals no good.

Now that he was somewhat more awake, he took proper stock of his surroundings. It was a cell, basically. Almost nothing inside, except the bed and desk. The window was screwed and painted shut, but no bars. Peter could easily break through if he wanted. He was sure he’d have no trouble escaping if he wanted to pull a _Shawshank Redemption_. Minus the taking twenty years to escape. It’d probably take him less than twenty minutes. Spider-Man was pretty good and sneaking in and out of high-security places.

But he’d decided last night that he wasn’t going to run. Not yet, at least. Because if he ran, there was no coming back. He’d have to spend the rest of his life in hiding. And he still _had_ a life. He had Ned, and MJ, and the kids—even if he’d ruined their lives and they probably all hated him, and he was going to get a scholarship and go to NYU or CUNY and be a scientist and help people. Maybe even get a patent or a prize from the Stark Competition.

Yeah, Peter had _purpose_. He had a _plan_. He was _capable_. He’d once lifted an entire school bus that was falling off a bridge. He could figure this bullshit out.

Just play the game for two or three days, and then he’d get bail, and then everything would work out. Somehow. He could do this.

The fucking alarm went off again, and Peter flinched, hunched over his screaming head. This time, the door opened with it, and a man in a guard uniform came in.

Peter started off his stay at Crossroads in trouble for not making his bed. Thankfully the only punishment was that he had to make his bed while the officer guy watched him. That was weird and uncomfortable, but not hard. The ‘bed’ was basically a metal frame bolted to the floor, a very thin mattress, a pillow, and one blanket. No sheets, even. Not exactly hard to make. Peter even managed not to snap at any of the guards.

That first day was a blur. Peter was exhausted, jumpy. There were alarms _everywhere_ , and they _hurt_. After the initial rush of adreneline of waking up, Peter was quickly fading. He was _so tired_. Even a morning shower—taken, as Ms. Takahashi had promised, in a private bathroom (or private except for the guard, who kept his back turned)—didn’t do anything to make him feel awake.

He kept nodding off, but every time he did, someone would be there, or an alarm would go off, or he’d wake himself up with a violent shiver. It was cold. Not like, outside-during-winter cold, but more like, crisp-fall-you-should-probably-wear-a-jacket cold. Normal cold. But Peter’s stupid spider-powers turned basically all his fat into muscle almost immediately, so he never had any insulation. He was freezing.

At breakfast, he sat alone and shoved food in his mouth mechanically, still too numb and tired to really care about what he was eating or that weird prison movie cafeteria trope about choosing your seat. He thought the food was maybe supposed to be eggs. He didn’t taste them.

He was pulled out of whatever it was he was supposed to be doing to get a more thorough debrief and interview, including two hours with a therapist. Or psychologist. A counselor? Something. Whatever.

Therapist guy asked a lot of questions. He had a little packet of papers and he went down the list, checking symptoms and ticking boxes. Peter answered everything monosyllabically and only semi-truthfully. His head felt hazy and stuffed full of cotton, like he was coming down with the flu. Maybe he was. God, he wanted to sleep.

When it got to the point where the guy started asking him about the events that led him here, about the Caldwells and Simon and Zach, about whether he’d ever been abused, like it was that easy, like it was yes or no and right or wrong, Peter shut down. He just stopped answering the questions. He didn’t know...Ms. Takahashi had told him not to talk about the case with anyone. Anyone included this guy. And Peter was tired. He couldn’t think.

There were too many secrets, too many things he was carrying inside him, and if he let one thing slip, the rest would come vomiting up after it, so he just...didn’t say anything. He stared at the wall and counted down the seconds until this ordeal would be over. The clock ticked, and ticked, and _ticked_ , and each tick was like a stab directly through his skull.

If he had his earplugs, or a blindfold, or… _something_. Today was a curl-up-somewhere-dark-and-quiet-and-moan-in-pain kind of day. He knew from experience that the more he tried to do something, the worse his senses would get. But he couldn’t do that. He just had to endure.

 _Come on, Spider-Man. You can do this. Suck it up_.

Lunch passed much like breakfast, except he was too nauseus to eat. And he actually took in some of his surroundings this time. Everything was painted bright colors. Oranges and yellows and blues. It was…a lot.Just, lots of colors and too bright. Especially with his senses already so shattered from the constant alarms. It wasn’t even like the alarms were objectively too loud or anything. A lot of them were entire hallways away. But Peter was too tired to filter out the noise, and each new burst of noise brought with it a sickening wave of pain.

Plus the lights were harsh and flourescent and loud, and the clothes were itchy and didn’t fit right, and there were so many people, moving around him and making noise and joking and calling out and laughing and it was just too much. There were maybe thirty or forty kids there, all of them around his age. And once they were out of the halls, where the no-talking rule was strictly enforced, they were _loud_.

A skinny kid with cornrows who was about Peter’s age slid into the seat across from him, drumming his fingers across the table in a manic pattern as he did so. “Hey, white kid,” he greeted Peter.

Blinking, Peter looked around and realized he was indeed the only white kid in the entire cafeteria.

“Hi?” he said, trying not to wince at the _drum-drum-drumming_ sound of nails on vinyl tabletop. He wasn’t trying to be rude, but _fuck_ , everything hurt.

The kid looked at him with some weird mix of curiousity and concern and amusement. “You look like shit,” he said.

Peter swallowed back nausea against the light and tried to concentrate on the conversation. He tried to say something, but it just came out as kind of a pained moan.

“You dopesick or what?”

Peter squinted at him, the words not quite making sense through his pained haze. “What?”

“You’re clucking like a plucked chicken, man.”

Peter was pretty sure that wouldn’t make sense even if he was at full capacity. “What?”

The kid sighed, looked Peter up and down. “I was doing the whole neighborly, Mr. Rogers thing, you feel? Trynna see if you’re a psycho or what to get up in here. But I guess you’re just a real unlucky junkie, huh. Usually they send the junkies to rehab, though, not here. They got a _policy_ for us _kiddies_. Only send folks here for _violent offenses_. You try to mug someone for a fix or something? Cuz, no offense, man, but I’m pretty sure my baby daughter could kick your ass if you came up on her in an alley, and that bitch ain’t even crawling yet.”

Enough of that managed to make its way into Peter’s brain that he thought he understood what the kid was saying. “I’m not an addict?” For some reason, it came out like a question. The kid had a daughter? How did _that_ work? Peter shook his head clear— _obviously_ people his age could have kids, he knew how sex worked, he just hadn’t known anyone who _did_ —and tried again. “I’m not an addict.”

The kid—had Peter misinterpreted him about the daughter? because he looked _young—_ rolled his eyes. “Sure you ain’t, junkie. I ain’t never heard _that_ one before. You could ask for medical, you know? For your ‘not withdrawal.’”

“Um.” _What was the right response in this scenario_? “Thanks?”

“You say anything like it ain’t a question?”

“…Yes?”

The kid looked at him like he was crazy. “Aight. Good talk. You…have fun with that. See you round, junkie.”

He was gone before Peter got himself together to say good-bye.

Peter groaned and flopped down on the table with his arms shielding his pounding head.

After lunch, he had a medical check-up. Where they did have him take several drug tests. Hair and urine samples. No blood, thankfully. Peter had done enough experiments on himself when trying to figure out how to get HRT that he knew his mutations wouldn’t be obvious unless they ran a test on his blood. The doctors looked confused when they all came back negative, so apparently everyone thought he was on drugs now? That was…cool. And by ‘cool,’ he meant not cool at all.

Eventually they had to give up and give Peter a clean bill of health, because besides him being tired and shaky, there was nothing wrong with him. No fever. No nothing.

Just malfunctioning spider-powers going crazy from stress and lack of sleep and eating normal amounts of people food instead of enough for three growing teens, but Peter wasn’t going to tell them that.

Then came a social services check-up. Then an educational placement test, which he considered skipping and just taking a nap instead. It wasn’t like he was actually going to go to school here. But between the alarms and the cold and his head hurting so fucking much, he couldn’t fall asleep, and the straight-A student inside him squirmed at the thought of purposefully skipping work.

He breezed through the packet they’d given him. It got harder as he went along, starting at around Kingergarten level and going up from there, ending somewhere around stuff Peter had learned in middle school. Peter was vaguely insulted, and thought he’d been handed the wrong packet. Or they’d forgotten to hand him the end bit? But no, apparently that was as high as it went.

After testing, then dinner, then a quick meeting with Ms. Takahashi where he learned his bail hearing was set for the day after tomorrow, came recreation time. Which was basically sitting in a common-room area. Peter sunk into a bean-bag chair and stared at the wall, cradling his head in his hands. He felt awful. The TV was going loud. People were going loud. So many things. The bean-bag was nice, though. Soft.

The wall was a mural. Like everything else here, bright colored paint in some wild attempt at cheeriness. A guy looking hopefully off into the distance with rays of light behind him. His shirt melted into…a chess board? And also into the torso of another man? Who was in a…bird cage, maybe? There was a street sign, and also a disembodied red fist with wings? Above the whole thing was a banner with a quote: “When I discover who I am, I’ll be free.”

Peter was so confused. He couldn’t stop staring at it.

_When I discover who I am, I’ll be free._

The words circled around in his mind. He thought there might be some meaning behind it, something he was missing. Like…a metaphor.

His head hurt.

He stared at the wall.

Maybe all those people had a point, thinking he was high.

He wanted the day to be over.

And somehow, by some miracle, finally, it was. And by an even greater miracle, Peter managed to curl up in bed with his arms and legs tucked into his oversized sweatshirt, and pass out into a dreamless void.

* * *

Day two was marginally better than day one. Actually, better than any days he’d had in several weeks. Peter’s senses weren’t quite so haywire. He didn’t have to see a therapist. He’d slept the night before. He went to ‘school.’

It was technically winter break, but apparently over the breaks, there was a thing called ‘Freedom School.’ Peter was pretty sure that was irony. There was singing and clapping to start off the day, which was awkward as hell for Peter at least, and then they spent the rest of the day reading a book, which was fine. The head teacher, Ms. Danae, was way too enthusiastic and kept trying to get him to sing, and Peter immediately hated her on principle. He did his best to shrink into the back of the classroom, and slept—or pretended to sleep—most of the day.

He quickly learned the rules of the facility: basically, no talking; hands behind your back when you’re moving; be super subservient all the time; and follow orders. Peter hated it. He hated hated hated hated it. But, it was easy to understand. And there was an endpoint in sight. One more day until bail.

Ms. Takahashi kept him updated on how Ms. Rhee and the kids were doing, and she let him know she’d gotten him a public defender. He’d been a few years above her in law school, and apparently her friends spoke highly about him. That was enough for Peter. _He_ certainly didn’t know how to go about hiring a lawyer.

Best of all, MJ came to visiting hours. Ned was still in the hospital with his dad, but MJ came. They spent the first half-hour just talking about nothing, and then MJ asked him how things were in there.

Peter did his best to describe it, leaving out anything powers-related or anything that sounded like it might be complaining. “It’s fine,” he started out, before diving into his description.

Ten minutes later, he was still rambling. “…And everything is ‘freedom’ this and ‘freedom’ that. It’s some serious doublethink stuff.”

MJ blinked. “Doublethink, wow. Don’t tell me you actually paid attention in English.”

“Well…no,” Peter admitted. “But I read the book!”

“ _You_. Read a book. Not about science.”

“I read books!”

MJ looked at him.

“Okay, fine, I read the SparkNotes. But I got an A on the essay, so that’s basically the same thing!”

“Sure.”

“Not everyone carries around a pretentious book with them everywhere they go so that they can spy on people while they’re pretending to read.”

MJ scoffed. “You’re so lucky you go to _science_ nerd school and not _liberal arts_ nerd school.”

Peter sighed, kicked the chair. “Yeah, well, at the moment, I go to ‘Freedom School.’” He didn’t bother to hide his bitterness. Not with MJ. “Seriously, MJ. They call it ‘Freedom School.’ In a _jail_. Who does that? And there’s a whole mural with this banner quote: ‘When I discover who I am, I’ll be free.’ Like, what? _Why?_ That _is_ weird and creepy, right? It’s not just me?”

“Mm.” MJ hummed in thought. “Ellison.”

“What?” Peter did not follow.

“That quote. It’s Ellison.” She closed her eyes, tilted her head back. “‘I had no desire to destroy myself even if it destroyed the machine; I wanted freedom, not destruction. It was exhausting, for no matter what scheme I conceived, there was one constant flaw—myself. There was no getting around it. I could no more escape than I could think of my identity. Perhaps, I thought, the two things are involved with each other. When I discover who I am, I'll be free.’”

Peter stared at her. He had chills.

She stared back. “That’s the quote,” she said, like it explained everything.

It did not explain everything. “How do you _know_ that? Do you have a photographic memory?”

“Do you not?”

“MJ, c’moooon. That was so cool! Like, I just said the quote, and then you were like, bam, hold up, here’s the entire paragraph it’s from.”

MJ shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

“But-” Peter sputtered. “ _How?_ ”

“Sometimes, I _actually read_ the books I carry around.”

Peter ignored the dig, too caught up in the awe of that absolute power move MJ had just pulled. “Yeah, but like, you just pulled off a whole-ass paragraph out of your _memory_! That’s like, _superpowers_.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Is it.”

“Um, yeah, kind of!” Peter

She raised her eyebrow even higher. _Really, Spider-Man?_ , that eyebrow said.

Peter scuffed his foot against the floor, but didn’t back down. “Come on, MJ, you’re a superhero, with powers and everything. Like, wow.”

MJ rolled her eyes. “Who said I’d be a _hero_ , anyway? Powers don’t imply inherent good.”

“Yeah, but you’re…you,” Peter helpfully replied. “You wouldn’t be _bad_.”

“I’d be a benevolent dictator. I’d preside over a dark reign of terror in which I forcibly mandate an entrenched respect for human rights and dignity.”

Peter’s stomach fluttered a bit at that image of MJ. “Yeah.” He sighed wistfully. “That sounds nice.”

She nodded. “My reign will be one of merciless empathy.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.

“What does it mean?” Peter asked.

“Hm?”

“The quote. What does it mean?”

MJ shrugged.

“Come on, MJ,” Peter whined.

MJ shrugged again. “I don’t know,” she said.

He gave her his best puppy-dog eyes until she shifted in her chair.

“It’s _Literature_ ,” she said, and he could hear the capital ‘L.’ “It isn’t like there’s one correct meaning.”

“Yeah, but…why did they choose that quote? I’ve literally stared at it for _hours_ and I can’t figure it out.”

Her brow furrowed. “The context is—it’s from this scene where the narrator is in a hospital, and he’s completely lost all memory of himself and his identity. Bunch of white doctors hook him up to an electrode-thing, and keep asking him who he is and devolving into racist stereotypes and guesses about him.”

Silence, except for everyone else’s conversations around them.

That was apparently all the description she was going to give.

Peter frowned, considering it. “How does he get himself out?”

“He doesn’t.”

“What?” That didn’t sound like normal book plots.

MJ just shrugged. “Eventually the doctors pronounce him cured, stuff him in some clothes, make him sign a promise not to sue, and they send him on his way. He doesn’t really,”—she bit her lip, struggling for words,—“part of the story is, basically, he doesn’t really have any control over his life. He’s always being seen by other people as…some _thing_ , some image of what a black man should be, instead of who he is, until he doesn’t have an identity and therefore doesn’t really exist at all.”

“Oh,” said Peter. That was _depressing_. “Does he ever…does he ever discover who he is, then?”

“Maybe,” said MJ. “Book ends with him kind of emerging from where he’s been hiding out, and he’s still invisible. Unseeable. But he still has a voice. That’s what the book is, his voice. It ends…” she trailed off, gathering the quote in her mind.

She nodded, decisive, and began. “‘ Being invisible and without substance, a disembodied voice, as it were, what else could I do? What else but try to tell you what was really happening when your eyes were looking through? And it is this which frightens me: Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?’”

“…Huh.” Peter shivered. The way MJ said words, it was like they _meant_ something. Which was a stupid thought, because of course words meant things, that was the whole point of words. But MJ said these things, or quoted these things, and it made Peter’s brain hurt, but in kind of a good way? He didn’t really _get_ it, he knew. He didn’t even really understand what the sentences meant. That’s why he stuck with SparkNotes. But MJ, when she was reading it out loud, made him feel things that he couldn’t name, and he thought he liked that. Even if the feelings weren’t necessarily good? Which was weird. These feelings scared him, but also inspired him? And were maybe comforting? But mostly very, very deeply scary.

Ugh, why did nothing make sense literally ever?

Before she left, MJ gave him an awkward smile. “Uh, good luck,” she said. “For, you know.”

 _Bail hearing tomorrow morning_. “Yup. Uh-huh. Thanks.”

MJ’s exit was followed by a bunch of wolf-whistles and jeers. She didn’t pause, but Peter flushed and balled his hands into fists as he pushed himself up from his chair.

“That your girl, junkie?” asked the same kid from lunch. “Because, _hot damn_.” He made a crude gesture.

Peter was torn. On the one hand, MJ was not “his girl.” On the other hand, Peter could very much sympathize with the general sentiment. On a third hand, Peter felt like he should call out the inherent sexism in that behavior. But on hand four (and how many hands did Peter have, anyway? Maybe eight, for spider-related reasons?), MJ didn’t need him to stand up for her. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Hand five was that MJ wasn’t here to stand up for herself. Then on the other-other-other-other-other-other hand (hand number six) MJ would say that this was all just a bunch of bullshit macho posturing and that Peter shouldn’t be trying to prove _his_ masculinity by using _her_ as a prop. Hand seven said he shouldn’t cause any trouble because his bail hearing was tomorrow and he was almost out of here, and that if he picked a fight with the kid, it would be almost impossible to get out of it without revealing his spider powers. Hand eight (phew! final hand) said none of that mattered and that standing up for MJ was the _right thing,_ and therefore he should do it no matter what.

Peter ended up unintentionally going with a third option, which was: stare blankly at the kid and have an internal crisis about sexism and hands until the kid muttered, “God, you’re a weirdo, huh?” and filed out of the room.

That night, Peter dreamt he was on patrol. Except whenever he webbed up a criminal, it just stuck to him instead, until he was wrapped up in a spiderweb-straightjacket. He kept growing arms to help him tear apart the webbing, but each new limb only got more and more in his way. And then it was an actual straightjacket, but in the same colors as his spidersuit, made out of his Stark competition fabric, unbreakable. Inescapable. Peter struggled against the restraints, but the more he fought, the tighter he got stuck.

And then he was falling, falling, falling, and he thumped onto the hard marble surface of a chessboard. “ _Who are you?_ ” said a voice from nowhere. Not just one voice, it was dozens, maybe hundreds of voices, repeating the question over and over and over from every direction. Some voices he recognized—Uncle Ben; Ms. Takahashi; Jason, the guy he’d almost killed; Madison, from the Fosters’ home; the judge from family court. Others, he didn’t know. Peter flinched away from their anger.

Peter opened his mouth to answer, but the webs got in his mouth, and he couldn’t speak.

“ _Who. Are. You._ ” demanded the voices, more insistent.

Peter struggled and screamed and accidentally inhaled a mouthful of web. And now he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t move except to writhe helplessly on the floor.

“ _State your name and your deepest secrets for the record, or you will not be forgiven_ ,” the voices intoned.

Peter tried. He really did. He squirmed against his self-made restraints, and could not get free.

A disembodied red hand with wings flew down from the ceiling. It took a scalpel, and cut open the cuccoon surrounding Peter. But it cut too deep, through the web and his clothes and his skin and his sternum. It carved through his breastbone and pried his ribs apart, grasped his beating heart in its fist and _squeezed_.

“ _You are a liar and a hypocrite and a villain hiding behind the mask of a hero. You are undeserving of freedom_ ,” said the voices, said May, and MJ, and Ms. Rhee. Said Alexandra Namdakova, and Yomi, whose name Peter hadn’t even _known_ until yesterday, because he’d never even _asked_.

A gavel sounded, and Peter shot up in his bed, gasping and tangled up in the sheets. He fell to the floor, and spent the rest of the night shivering in the corner, afraid to close his eyes.

He was not at all surprised when he didn’t get bail.

* * *

After the bail hearing, Peter shut down. Nothing felt real. He’d been holding on to this hope, to this unshakeable belief, that the horrors would be over soon, if he just waited out the weekend so he could get to school, if he just waited two weeks for Ms. Rhee to get back, if he just waited three days for bail. But it wasn’t over and it wouldn’t be over and it would just keep going. Now it was two weeks for the courts to open again and maybe work out a deal. But that wouldn’t happen. They kept shackling him in chains and pushing him into cars and driving him places that were just a different form of prison and stripping him bare and cutting him raw and nothing would ever change no matter how strong he was or how long he held out.

Because he wasn’t a person anymore. He was just a prisoner, a ward of the state, to be shuffled around wherever suited the Powers That Be.

He didn’t eat lunch. He couldn’t. He moved where they told him to move and sat and stared and didn’t exist.

He wasn’t Spider-Man. But he wasn’t Peter Parker either. He wasn’t the kid who was loved by his parents and aunt and uncle, who worked at Mr. Delmar’s in the morning to pay for HRT, who bussed tables to buy school supplies for the kids he cared about. He wasn’t the kid who’d been picked on all his life, but who’d kept going, and had found friends, and had thrived. He wasn’t the kid who’d worked his ass off to get a full scholarship to the best school in the city, the kid who had a future, who was going to get a scholarship to any college he wanted.

He wasn’t going to win anything from the Stark competition.

And for some reason, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The _stupid_ fucking Stark competition. As if he’d actually thought he’d have a chance at winning one of the scholarships. As if that mattered in all this mess.

But he’d worked _so hard_ on it. Despite everything. He’d made something cool. Something that could be good. And it didn’t matter because he hadn’t done the write-up or submitted it. It didn’t matter. _Nothing_ he did ever mattered or made a difference.

And Peter was sobbing—deep, wracking things that threatened to tear him apart with each breath, but _it didn’t matter_ and he couldn’t stop. He just curled up into a ball, and cried.

“Uh…junkie?” The voice was hesitant. “White kid? Yo, I don’t actually know your name, because you’re a rude little psycho who’s obviously pretty fucked in the head and never introduced himself, but you think you could answer me?”

Peter blinked and looked up with red-rimmed eyes. It was the fidgety kid who maybe had a daughter who’d sat across him at lunch the first day and then commented on MJ, plus another guy who Peter didn’t know. Other Guy was _big_ , though: maybe 6’6 and wide, though it was hard to tell if he was thick with muscle or fat beneath the shapeless green sweats. They were both looming over him and looking at him with something like concern.

“Sorry,” said Peter, wiping his face, and immediately hating himself for apologizing. He didn’t have anything to be sorry for. He had _every right_ to cry on the floor in the common room if he wanted.

The two kids exchanged a _look_ and Fidgety knelt down in front of him. Other Guy continued looming. He was, Peter had to admit, very good at looming, even though he hadn’t set Peter’s spidey-sense off at all.

“Ain’t you ever seen a prison movie, man?” asked Fidgety. “Or, like, watched TV? _You don’t show weakness in prison_. That’s, like, rule number one.”

Peter laughed. He actually laughed. And then he blinked, surprised at his own laughter. “I’ve been told that I’m an idiot and that I’m going to die because I just naturally throw myself at whatever danger there is,” he offered. His voice was hoarse, but soft. “MJ says that a lot. Um, you saw MJ the other day, during visiting hours. She’s badass. And way smarter than me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Fidgety. “I remember. She was, like, quoting Ellison and being all ‘fight the system’ and banging to boot, and then you were acting like you forgot how to speak. ”

Other Guy nodded sagely.

“Uh…yeah,” said Peter.

“So, seriously, what’s your deal, new kid?” Now that Peter’s senses weren’t going completely haywire, it was almost kind of nice to hear the tap-tap-tap of Fidgety’s fingers against his legs. Grounding. “You ain’t really a junkie, cuz then you woulda been taken to detox. You ain’t _stupid_ , sure, but you also ain’t got, like, _any_ sense. And now you’re just sobbing in the middle of the room, which is straight-up _weird_ , but not, like, psycho torture-murderer weird, you feel? So…what _is_ your deal?”

Peter snorted and pulled back, mildly offended but mostly amused in spite of himself. Yeah, he could see how he wouldn’t make any sense. Like, how on earth would you reconcile a tiny white trans kid (though he didn’t _think_ they knew he was trans) who was obviously a vulnerable messon the one hand, with the way Peter very clearly wasn’t scared of anyone in _literal jail_ on the other hand, even though he definitely should be? And yeah, sure, Peter was Spider-Man and regularly fought criminals and literal supervillains way worse than anyone in here, and _Peter_ knew that his superpowers would warn him if he was in danger and, if push came to shove, he could easily take everybody in the room in a fight without breaking a sweat, but that wasn’t exactly something he wanted to share with the class?

“Um, I’m Peter?” he tried, as if that was any kind of explanation. “And I basically haven’t slept in three weeks, so I’m kind of glitching out. Normally, I…make more sense,” he finished weakly. _Did he, though? Had he ever made sense? Was he even a real person? Why was he having an existential crisis right now, when he should be focused on the two criminal guys who were interrogating him?_

“Uh-huh,” said Other Guy. He upped his looming quotient. Peter’s spidey-sense still didn’t go off. Dude was just not pinging as a threat. Peter felt kinda bad that he wasn’t quailing in fear or whatever, but he was _not_ a good actor and he did not have the energy to even try.

“But why are you in here?” Fidgety pressed. “Marco’s innocent.” A jerk of his head at Other Guy said that Other Guy was Marco. “Wrong place, wrong time and they pinned him for a burglary in Bed-Stuy. But me, I’m the real deal. Here on armed robbery. Held a loaded fucking gun to the cashier’s head and I woulda pulled the trigger if it’da done any good.”

Fidgety was better than Marco at being intimidating, but _still_ neither of them were pinging off the bad-guy bells in Peter’s head. Maybe his spidey-senses were broken. It was objectively a threatening situation. He had no idea how to respond.

“…Good for you?” Peter tried. It was his go-to when criminals started bragging about their dastardly deeds and he was too dazed to come up with a proper quip.

“Naw, man, that’s what I’m saying.” Fidgety spun around on his heel and thunked Peter on the head. “That is not a normal response to someone getting up in your face and saying he could be a stone-cold killer.”

“I’m…sorry?” Peter really had no idea what these guys wanted from him. “Um, I’m very scared. Of you. Very intimidated. Yes. I have. Fear.”

He’d been trying to make that sincere, but apparently his default when he was running on zero hours of sleep was ’sarcastically taunt criminals.’

 _What the fuck?,_ Fidgety mouthed up at Marco, who just shrugged and warily took a step back from Peter. They were both looking at him like he’d just confirmed the ‘psycho torture-murderer’ theory, which, whoops.

“Whoops,” said Peter, and _wow,_ did he really just not have a brain-to-mouth filter right now? Wouldn’t it be good if people thought he was a psycho killer? Because then he’d be left alone? Apparently, his mouth didn’t agree, because it was still babbling at a mile a minute. “That didn’t come out…I mean, well, I guess, um, sorry, just let me think…um, hmm. That was…um, that really sucks? Marco, I mean. That really sucks, wrong place, wrong time.”

Marco raised an eyebrow. “You actually believe that?” His voice was skeptical, but gentle.

Peter shrugged, and went with the truth. “Yeah? I mean, you seem all right. Both of you, actually. You’re the only people in here who’ve tried to talk to me, and sure, you’re doing the whole intimidation looming thing, but I’m pretty sure you just came over here to check if I’m alright? Which is, really nice. So…thank you?”

Marco crossed his arms and shot Fidgety a look. “We need to work on our street cred if tiny, white, and nerdy here can see right through us.”

Fidgety sighed and fluttered his fingers. “ _Fine_ ,” he said. “You got us. But _don’t_ fucking tell anyone we’re soft.”

“Everybody already knows, Jesús,” said Marco. And thank fucking God, Peter finally got a name for Fidgety. “You held up a liquor store with a _water gun_ to get _diaper money_. That’s fucking soft.”

“It still counts!” Jesús protested.

“You didn’t even paint it. It was neon green and orange. You could see the water inside. Sloshing.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t gonna carry a _real gun_ around my daughter, man. And that store got a _policy_ : they gotta give you the money no matter what. Even if you don’t got a gun _at all_.”

Peter grinned. “So when you said you would’ve pulled the trigger…?” He imagined a slightly disgruntled store clerk getting doused in water.

Jesús rolled his eyes. “Shut up, white kid. You ain’t right in the head and your opinion don’t count.”

And that was how Peter made his first friends in prison.

They ended up talking, a lot, and Peter ended up sharing a bit of what was going on with him. Just the bare bones: bad fosters; trying to get the kids out; no bail. “And I guess it just hit me,” said Peter, “that I don’t really have a future any more. It’s this fucking stupid thing, really, but there was this scholarship competition I was working on, and the deadline’s the end of the year. And…I really thought I could do it. Win the competition, get a full ride, go to college, have a _life_. And _now_? I’m not gonna get out until January at the _earliest_. I won’t even get to submit my project. And I probably can’t go back to my school, even if they drop the charges. Getting arrested in the first place? Yeah, they’ll revoke my scholarship for that. So, I thought I had a future, a plan; I thought I was gonna get _out_ , and now I’m not even sure I’ll graduate high school. It’s…stupid.”

Marco nodded. “Sucks.”

Peter scoffed. “Not nearly as much as being innocent. I mean, I _actually did_ the things they’re accusing me of.”

“Woah, woah, woah, junkie. Stop.” Jesús looked serious. “First rule of prison, especially if you ain’t plead out yet: _don’t admit guilt._ They use that shit against you.”

“I thought the first rule of prison was _don’t show weakness_ ,” Peter teased, “and I already fucked that one up. Might as well go for the full set.”

“Yeah, but you might be outta here in a few weeks, few months maybe. And if you’re really some genius whiz-kid, you can apply for other scholarships. Go to college. Do all that life shit. Hell, you could probably still apply for that one you got going through your lawyer if they’re decent. Unless you do something _idiotic_ , like confessing to a crime while you’re in lockup and then you’re in here for years. That’s the _first thing_ they say, man. First thing. ‘Anything you say can and will be used against you.’ And you say you’re a genius.” He huffed.

Peter was too busy picking out the part of Jesús’s rambling that said he could still compete in the Stark competition to take any offense to the rest of it. “What do you mean I could enter the Stark competition through my lawyer?”

Jesús shrugged. “Lawyers are generally pretty useless, but if you got a nice one, they can basically smuggle whatever paperwork stuff in and out. Mail, memes, whatever. As long as it’s on paper and doesn’t look shady. Then we only got dull pencils—no pens or sharpeners or shit like that—but if it’s good enough for the Supreme Court…” He shrugged and popped his cheek.

“Plus Ms. Danae who runs the Freedom School, she can get you books and stuff from the library,” Marco added. “It’s part of the literacy program.”

“Jesús, Marco,” said Peter, trying to embody it with all the gravitas he could muster into his addled, cried out, sleep-deprived, hungry state. “You guys are great.”

“We know,” said Jesús.

Marco just nodded sagely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of endnotes this time. Some Thoughts I had after really struggling with writing this chapter and figuring out what to include:
> 
>  **The Mural, Ellison, Quotations, & the Sheer Pretensiousness of this Chapter**  
> This chapter is weird and pretensious and not the kind of thing I ever thought I’d write. (I inserted a dream sequence, even though I _hate_ dream sequences, because all serious works of Art(tm) have Metaphorical Dreams and I wanted to shove the symbolism in there, AND I also ungracefully sledgehammered in a long diversion into my junior year of highschool english class, half-remembered from almost a decade ago, which is Up There in the realm of pretentious things to do.) But I actually really like it?
> 
> So, thank you for indulging my 800 word diversion into Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. I don’t really know how that happened. It started when I found pictures of the mural ([which is real and is indeed in Crossroads Juvenile Facility, though I think it’s in a hallway, not a common room](https://0d4g9qvxfl-flywheel.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/10/20180925CityLimitsCrossroads-3094Web2000X1333-771x514.jpg)) and I was like…why? What is the point of that quote in this context? I figured MJ would be a fan of Ellison, and I headcanon her as having an almost photographic memory. Which super helps with her drawing and also means she’s just really good at remembering/quoting stuff. Because you know MJ is the kind of pretentious Literature teen who likes to pull out quotes to sound smart.
> 
> I believe there is a point to this pretentousness (both in-universe and from a more meta perspective), otherwise I wouldn’t have subjected you to it. Peter, for the first time in a long time, has the room to collapse and be introspective and depressed and think about, like, symbolism and the bigger picture. Which is not his natural inclination, but sometimes you gotta.
> 
> He has been running on fight or flight mode for so long (literal MONTHS), and trying to protect everyone, and he just can’t. Now that he’s in a place where none of that is an option, he is finally free to just…collapse. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing, and it’s not gonna last, but it does give him the opportunity that he hasn’t had to reflect on who he is, both as Peter and as Spider-Man, what his place in the world is, and what his values actually are if he has the opportunity to choose them. Sometimes you do that through symbolic dreams, sometimes you do that through meeting new people that you wouldn’t otherwise meet, and sometimes you do that through engaging with the ideas published in capital-L Literature.
> 
> Thinking about this stuff is *hard*. It’s a slog. Engaging with complex moral ideas and reckoning with injustice and dehumization and entrenched systems of power in relation to your own identity as a human being is *hard.* But Peter is doing it!! Because he’s amazing!!
> 
>  **The Freedom School**  
>  Like the mural , the Freedom School thing is also real, though in our world it’s just a summer program (Links: [x](https://jjie.org/2018/08/28/new-york-alternative-emphasizes-rehabilitation-for-raise-the-age-candidates), [x](https://cdfny.org/programs/cdf-freedom-schools/new-york-freedom-schools), [x](https://www.ny1.com/nyc/all-boroughs/news/2019/07/22/how-a-literacy-program-in-the-city-s-juvenile-detention-centers-is-making-a-difference)). 
> 
> I don’t know enough about it to have a real opinion on it, but they seem like they’re trying to do good stuff. And they didn’t start out as a project for prisons, so the name is less weirdly on the nose than it seems at first glance. Education *is* a path to freedom, though it alone isn’t sufficient and is often difficult to obtain or apply. But, from Peter’s perspective, he just got sent to jail, where the whole point is that they literally take away your freedom, and then was told that he had to enroll in mandatory “Freedom School.” Plus he’s an awkward white nerd trying to clap in rhythm. Of course he hates it.
> 
> I’m going to save my endnotes on prison infrastructure and spider-child thermoregulation for next time, so look forward to that!!


	22. II-5. Coming Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhh the chapter with Ned & Peter just won’t let me write it & I’m *so frustrated.* In between when I started writing this story and now, my own dad was diagnosed with cancer & has a bad prognosis, so I’m not sure if maybe that’s making that scene harder to write? But I *need* that chapter to happen for plot/emotional resonance reasons. So, have some pepper & harley & tony stuff to tide y’all over in the meantime, which was originally just a little fluff I’d scheduled to come later on in the story but now it goes here (with an extra-special added scene to make it *Christmas* and *Pain* because I love you all and know you are here for the Angst and the long historical diatribes in the endnotes)
> 
> CW: coming out; unintentional outing; alcoholism; self-destructive behavior; drug use (mentioned briefly—cocaine); drunk driving (mentioned, no injuries); the AIDS crisis; self-loathing; implied underage sex; death; just, lots of death in this chapter, but they’re all OCs we haven’t met who died off-screen; whoo boy that’s a lot; we get a look into Tony’s fucked-up psyche

“I hate you and everything about you why did you make me do this why did you let Tony adopt me why do you insist on torturing me.” Harley’s entire speech was delivered in a flat monotone as he lay on the floor of the training room and stared up at the ceiling.

Pepper felt her mouth twist upwards from her seat on a bench, but tried to focus instead on the StarkPad in front of her with SI’s Q4 preliminary revenue reports.

“It’s good for you,” Rhodey responded, unsympathetic. “Up.” He walked carefully over to the downed teenager, still not entirely used to his new legs.

“Nothing that’s this painful can possibly be good for me. Leave me alone to die in peace.”

“No can do, kid. It’s good for your soul.” Rhodey hoisted Harley’s limp form into a standing position.

“But I don’t _have_ a soul,” Harley whined, refusing to take any of his own weight, remaining limp in Rhodey’s arms.

“It’s good for the abyss where your soul should be, then,” Pepper cut in from across the room.

Harley shot her a mock-offended look. “Jeez, Pepper, what’d I ever do to you?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you _really_ making a disabled person carry you around right now?”

“I’m disabled too!” Harley pointed out, literally pointing to the prosthetic that replaced his left leg from the knee on down. “I don’t have a _leg_!”

“Oh, boo-hoo,” said Rhodey. “I don’t have _two_ legs, and you don’t see me whining about it.”

“I am not _whining_ , I’m just saying that you should leave me to my tragic fate so that I can stop _suffering_.” He let out an exaggerated groan and fell backwards in Rhodey’s arms. Pepper was impressed with Rhodey’s upper-body strength; Harley had grown up _big_ , and it couldn’t be easy supporting the dead weight of a six-foot teenager. But Rhodey made it look effortless.

He leveled Harley with an unamused look. “Tough.”

“Ughhhh. You’re the worsssst. I am a _normal_ kid, with a _normal_ body, and _no leg_ and it is against the Geneva Conventions that you are making me do superhero workouts.”

Rhodey grinned. “Oh my God, you’re worse than Tony, and that’s saying something. We’ll get Thor in here one day, and then you’ll see a _real_ superhero workout. This is nothing.”

Harley scowled and pushed himself free to stand on his own two feet. “Yeah, well, Thor can go suck a dick. _He_ doesn’t have to deal with being this sore.”

“One, language,” Pepper reprimanded, “and two, no homophobic sayings in this household.”

“Okay,” said Harley, “But, counterpoint: it wasn’t homophobic—”

Pepper sighed. “I know it’s a saying, but its usage implies that—”

“No,” Harley interrupted. “You didn’t let me finish. It’s not homophobic because I’m gay and I say it isn’t. It could be positive dick-sucking.”

There was a long moment of silence, in which Harley shuffled a bit and looked at the floor. His tone had been light and joking, but he chewed his lip nervously as he looked up at them.

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose and set down her StarkPad. She sighed. Loudly. “ _This_ is how you’re coming out? Seriously?”

It struck her after the words left her mouth that she could have come across as a bit more supportive.

“Uh, surprise?” Harley grinned hesitantly and flashed her a set of jazz hands.

“Seriously. Worse than Tony, this kid,” Rhodey muttered under his breath, chuckling.

Pepper shot him a _look_ , but she was secretly grateful for the distraction. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rhodey. _Tony_ didn’t even bother to come out. He just seduced that Saudi prince and—” She cut herself off. Maybe that story wasn’t entirely appropriate for young ears.

Rhodey burst out laughing. “Oh my God, I completely forgot about that!”

“How did you _forget_ about that?” Pepper teased. “I mean, I know you weren’t there, but it was _kind of_ memorable. It’s not every day you walk into a hotel room to find your boss and a foreign dignitary buck naked on the floor.“

Rhodey grinned. “It’s _Tony_. Switch out hotel for dormitory, and I’m pretty sure you described the college experience of rooming with the guy. He’s never exactly been _subtle_. Or discreet. Did he seriously not come out to you before that?”

“It’s _Tony_ ,” Pepper responded dryly. “That would require talking about his feelings.”

Rhodey raised his hands in appeasement. “All right, all right. You’ve got a point. And you’re right. Harley’s _much_ better than Tony. No barely-averted international incidents in this coming-out.”

Pepper inclined her head. “Thank you. And you’re going to _keep it that way_ , Keener, understand? No international incidents.”

Harley’s eyes had widened to dinner-plate proportions as he followed their conversation. He completely ignored her threat. “I didn’t know Tony was…bi? He never told me that. Shouldn’t that be, like, common knowledge? Shouldn’t that be on Wikipedia or something? WikiLeaks?”

Pepper raised an eyebrow. “It was an _averted_ international incident,” she said. Then she sighed, tired, and massaged her temples. It seemed she had a constant headache these days, plus she’d started feeling nauseous with built-up anxiety most of the time. “Tony’s not exactly out, not publicly. He’s not _not_ out, either, but…it’s complicated. We spent a good deal of the 90’s and early 2000’s diverting the press’s attention away from the whole thing. The AIDS crisis was still _very_ recent memory, and it would have been bad for business. And then Tony was kidnapped, and we got Iron Man, and the Avengers, and Tony and I started…whatever it is we’re doing, and it never really came up again. I’m sure you could ask him about it though.”

“Huh.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I need to up my game.”

“No.” Pepper went deadly serious, and the atmosphere in the room went cold with her. “Harley, we’re laughing about it now, yes, twenty years later, but listen to me very closely: If you’re going to have any kind of romantic or sexual relationship with someone who lives in a country where homosexuality is illegal, make sure you are _safe_ and that you are not surrounded by a bunch of _armed, homophobic weapons dealers who could legally execute you for being gay_.”

Harley stepped back a bit and the force of her words. He paused, and she could see the message sinking in. Good. She hadn’t quite realized it at the time, but that incident had nearly ended with all of them _dead_. Actually, a lot of her interactions with Tony led to scenarios where they all could have died. That was probably an argument against bringing Harley, a literal child (if only for another year), into their lives. But, well, he was already there.

Said child exhaled a short puff of air. “Not exactly how I expected the safe sex talk to go.”

Pepper shrugged. “Yeah, well, Tony spends his life confounding expectations.”

“And he’s not even here.” Rhodey shook his head and tutted in mock disapproval. He clapped Harley on the shoulder. “Congrats, kid, you’re gay and we’ve had the safe sex talk. You still have to do your cool-down laps.”

“Fine.” Harley gave the most exaggerated groan ever and started to jog away. “I want to state for the record, though: this is homophobic! And ableist! You hear that? You’re being discriminatory!”

Rhodey snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Less talking, more running, Keener!”

When he was out of earshot, Pepper moved to stand next to Rhodey and spoke quietly. “I probably could have handled that better.”

Rhodey shrugged. “No international incidents so far. One of us should probably give the actual safe sex talk, though.”

Pepper closed her eyes. “I’m gonna make Tony do it. He owes me.”

* * *

“What did you tell the kid?”

“Hm?” Pepper looked up from where she was snuggled under the duvet with her laptop, a glass of red, and several thousand pages of legalese.

“The kid, the kid. You know. We only have the one of them.” Tony was agitated. He was also drunk. Not drunk enough to be slurring his words or swaying, but definitely drunk. Drunker than Pepper was, at least, and she wasn’t sober.

He hadn’t had any business meetings tonight, which meant he’d been drinking alone. Pepper sighed. It had been a while. But the time around Christmas was always hard—Howard and Maria were murdered by the Winter Soldier on December 16, then the whole Mandarin fiasco had happened right around Christmas in 2013, and the car crash that took Harley’s leg and the lives of his mom and sister was on December 26th. All in all, a fucking stressful and nightmare-fueled time for all of them.

“The kid,” she repeated, dry. “Harley?”

“Yes, that one! Got it one, Ms. Potts. Congratulations, truly your genius knows no bounds. I should be bowing at the altar of your-”

“Tony.”

Tony stopped, sighed. “Sorry.” He flung himself on the bed.

“Shoes.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Pepper, I’ll buy new sheets if I fuck them up.” He ripped his work-boots off as he spoke, threw them on the ground. “This is _my_ bed, _my_ sheets, I can wear fucking shoes if I want to.”

“Tony.” Sharper this time.

He tensed, hands forming into fists, and she could see the glint of metal at his wrist before he dismissed the gauntlet beginning to form from his watch. He took a breath and looked anywhere but at her, fingers tap, tapping on nonexistent keys.

Pepper shut her laptop closed with a soft click, tried to blink away her own fuzziness. “What’s wrong?”

A long silence. “I can’t— can’t.”

“Words?”

He shook his head, a panicked whine escaping from his lips.

“Okay.” Telegraphing her moves, she entwined her hand in his, snaking her way up his arm, over the repulsor watch, fingers through fingers. Her head dropped on his chest. “Breathe with me. FRIDAY, lights to 50% please.”

The lights dimmed, and Pepper felt Tony’s frantic heartbeat beneath her ear. It still felt weird—wrong, almost—to not have the arc reactor beneath her head. The sharp ridges of scar tissue under cotton where it had been was oddly comforting. Familiar. She traced over it with her other hand and waited for his breath to even out.

Ten minutes passed.

Twenty.

“He wanted to talk about-, about feelings stuff, and the damn kid has never known when to shut up, and it was just—” He bit off his words. “Too much. Too much. Pepper, I can’t. I can’t do this.” The confession was wheezed and pained.

With a sinking feeling, Pepper realized she knew where this was going. _Shit_. She’d really fucked this up. Well, no sense in prolonging it. “He came out to you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he did.” Tony’s voice was tight. “And you know what was _really_ interesting about that, Pepper? He seemed to think that was something we might have in common. Now I wonder where he might have gotten _that_ impression, since I know for damn sure that we scrubbed—”

“I told him,” Pepper headed him off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—” She moved to pull away, uncertain if he still wanted her plastered to his side, but he tightened his grip around her hand, so she stayed.

“You didn’t think— _what_? That I may have wanted a heads up? Or maybe for him not to know at all?”

Pepper took a breath. “I fucked up,” she said, simple fact. “I didn’t think you would mind, but I shouldn’t have made that assumption for you.”

“You didn’t think I would mind?” Tony laughed bitterly. “You led the cover-up effort, Pep! You know _exactly_ how much—” His grip around her hand was growing painfully tight.

With a conscious effort, he uncurled his fingers. “Why?”

Pepper thought about the words. “I know this sounds crazy, but I didn’t think it was a secret.”

She cut off Tony’s scoff. “No, listen. You’ve never been particularly _secretive_ about your various…liaisons. Not in private. Only for the media, the board, investors, the public. You’ve never had me _deny_ any affairs with men, only…distract from them. And Harley’s not the public. He’s not the press. He’s your”— _son_ —“kid. I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. That he was in good company.” She tapped against his scar tissue. There was a heart under there.

Tony deflated. “I’m not.”

Pepper shifted her head to meet his eyes. “You,” she said, emphatic, “are very good company, Mr. Stark. And I will fight anyone who dares imply otherwise.”

“You’ll have to fight the whole world then. I don’t think there’s anyone else who actually _enjoys_ my company.”

Pepper just looked at him. _Rhodey_ , she tried to say with her eyes. _Happy_. _Harley. Vision_ , if Vision’s company didn’t make _Tony_ want to run and hide. There was still too much JARVIS in the man—android, construct, whatever—for their relationship to be anything but stilted and painful.

“You have entirely too much faith in me, Ms. Potts.”

“Not at all, Mr. Stark. I have exactly the right amount of faith.” She smiled, slow, with her eyes, and then curved up to kiss him. She could feel his own answering smile beneath her lips.

They lay in the dim light for some interminable length of time, just breathing.

Pepper had fallen half-asleep when Tony spoke again.

“Everywhere I go, I bring death.”

It was not the most pleasant of sentences to filter through her almost-dreams. But this was Tony, actually talking. She nuzzled her head into his shoulder and hummed to show she was listening, but didn’t otherwise interrupt him.

“Merchant of Death. I deserved that one. Following the family legacy. But even when I’m actively trying to save lives…Ultron. SHIELD. I worked for fucking Nazis, Pep. I advanced their agenda. Hell, even Iron Man is a weapon. I say I’m out of the business of selling death, but I’m not. That’s fine. Semantics, PR. Privatizing world peace is honestly a hell of a lot closer to dealing out weapons of war than I thought it would be. Whatever. No big. But…I wanted something better for the kid. I want better for _you_. I thought I could provide some, I don’t know, safety? security? stability? But the only way I know how to do that is through fortifications and fighting and…War. Death. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Pepper didn’t know how to respond to that. “You make _me_ feel safe.”

He shot her a look. “Malibu.” It had been almost six years to the day since Tony had publically dared a terrorist to call a missile strike on their home.

She shrugged. “I was fine, in the end. Your suit shielded me from the worst of it.”

“And then you were kidnapped by a mad scientist who had a grudge against me and experimented on and plummeted to your fiery death because I didn’t catch you on time.”

“That’s on him, not you. And I’m alive.”

“You won’t be, if you stay with me.”

“Tony,” she said. “I’m alive. And I’m staying. And I’ll stay alive. Through sheer force of will, if I have to.”

“The indomitable Ms. Potts.”

“Mm. And I bet you anything that Harley would say the same, if you asked him.”

Tony didn’t respond, but his silence was doubtful.

“All this was prompted by the kid coming out? Or is it just the season?”

She expected some wisecrack about festering trauma or ’tis the season, but instead Tony thought for a minute. “I ever tell you about Eric?”

She shook her head no.

“We were a thing, for a hot minute. Way before I met you. 1986. We met in the Village when I was home from MIT for summer break and was hanging out in gay bars to piss off my father.”

Pepper huffed in amusement. That was such a _Tony_ thing to do.

“He was a freshman at NYU. We clicked, never got beyond heavy petting. I go back to Boston, live my life, come back a few months later for Christmas, figure I’ll look him up, and he’s dead.”

Pepper startled at that abrupt swerve. “Fuck. What happened?”

“AIDS,” said Tony.

“Shit.” She did some quick math. 1986, Tony would’ve been sixteen. Just a few months younger than Harley was now.

“Yeah. So I go down to the bar where we’d met, trying to find out what happened, and I came across a friend of his I’d sort of met a few times. George. We had a drink or ten, drowned our sorrows, he introduced me to some more of their mutual friends, I went back off to college, they went off back to college, everything’s shiny. I spend spring break partying with Rhodey, come back to New York for summer, and George is dead too. And so’s Michael. And Evan. Matt and Ken are in the hospital waiting to die. I can’t describe it, Pep, except to say that people were dropping like flies and I was there fucking like there was no tomorrow.”

He paused.

Pepper wasn’t sure if the smell of whiskey was real or some imagined memory.

“I didn’t think there _would_ be a tomorrow, not for me. If it wasn’t the plague, it would’ve been the coke. Or the alcohol. The drunk driving. Thrill seeking. I have no idea how I made it out of that mess alive and in one piece. No one else did.”

The silence was ringing. “I don’t deserve it. Being alive. But that’s what I do. I bring death, and chaos, and destruction to everyone and everything I care about. Yinsen. My parents. You. Fuck, even Obie. And I walk away. Even from Steve, I walked away. Should’ve been dead. Would’ve deserved it. Not for—not for the Accords. Not for _Barnes_.” His mouth twisted around the name. “But for the other shit. ‘If thou do that which is evil…’” He trailed off into silence.

“Evil will come unto you?” Pepper guessed at the rest of the quote.

He shook his head. “Be afraid,” he said.

A beat. Silence.

“Pepper, I’m scared.”

She rubbed circles into his chest.

“I can’t bring the kid into my shit. I can’t— I can’t do that again.”

She didn’t know what to do.

“The world’s a mess. It’s broken. Everything is broken. I can’t—Pepper, I just can’t.”

She didn’t know what to do. So she just held him until they both drifted off into uneasy sleep.

Pepper was up again before the dawn, plagued by the memory of her guilt-ridden dreams and feeling sick. She threw up in their adjoined bathroom, brushed her teeth, and scooped the stacks of paper containing the Accords out of their bed from where she’d left them last night. Then she slipped out of their room and started reading, highlighter in hand. _This_ was something she could do; this was perhaps all she could do.

But it wasn’t enough, it wouldn’t ever be enough, and she felt the haunting weight of her inadequacies heavier than normal as she went about her day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tony, Sexuality, & The AIDS Crisis**
> 
> Tony Stark was born in 1970. That would put him in his mid-late teens at the height of the AIDS crisis. He was at MIT from 1984–1987. Then, since his parents still lived in NYC (they died while driving to long island), he probably was at least partially based in NYC from the time he graduated until 1991 when his parents died & he took over SI. If he wasn’t in NYC, he was probably in California (Malibu). Both CA and NYC were hotbeds for the AIDS crisis, and it isn’t unreasonable to think that Tony, in his “fuck you, dad” phase spent a lot of time hanging around in countercultural/queer spaces. It would have been impossible at the time to be in those spaces and not be deeply, deeply aware of the problem. 
> 
> In 1987, there had been 50,378 cases of AIDS reported in the United States to date, and 40,849 deaths (That’s an 81% death rate). (Source: [nycaidsmemorial.org/timeline](https://nycaidsmemorial.org/timeline)). By 1995, AIDS was the leading cause of death for Americans age 25 to 44. ([source](https://www.nytimes.com/1995/01/31/science/aids-is-now-the-leading-killer-of-americans-from-25-to-44.html)). [Here](https://sdlgbtn.com/causes/2017/11/28/picture-1993-reminds-people-loss-life-due-aids) is a picture of the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus: the people in white are the survivors from the original roster, and the people in black represent those lost to AIDS. That picture is terrifying. 
> 
> AIDS was called the “Gay Plague”, and the fight for LGBTQ+ civil rights, which had been gaining momentum in the 1970s, lost a lot of traction. People demonized the gay community in the wake of AIDS, especially men who had sex with men. Even today, any man who has had sex with another man in the past year cannot donate blood in the United States, based on the inaccurate idea that gay men are more likely to have HIV. [(Though this ban was modified to be only 3 months in light of COVID-19)](https://www.ajmc.com/view/fdas-revised-blood-donation-guidance-for-gay-men-still-courts-controversy)
> 
> So, the fallout: Tony’s inability to reckon with his emotions, coupled with Howard “real men don’t cry” Stark’s A+ parenting, and Tony being in THE most macho man industry & heavily scrutinized by the press, AND he would have come of age during the AIDS crisis, and…yeah, this is what came of it. He’s not repressed, because if Tony sees something (or someone) he wants, he’s gonna go for it; and he’s not exactly in the closet, because I don’t think that Tony “I am Iron Man” Stark would physically be able to stay in the closet entirely. But he is very aware of the potential ramifications of being out. And he’s scared of them.
> 
> Tony is very confident in certain aspects of himself, and one of those aspects is his sexuality in the ‘initiating physical sexual intercourse & flirting with people’ sense. Sexual activity? Regardless of gender, Tony’s pretty chill and at home with it. But emotional intimacy and introspection? Not so much his forte. Tony has not at all processed any of the emotions stuff or any identity things that come out of being a man who has or would like to have sex with men. Until his conversation with Harley offscreen, I don’t think that it would have even occurred to him as an option to identify as part of the LGBTQ+ community.
> 
> So, when Harley, who DOES see being gay as part of his identity and is pretty chill with it in a Gen Z kinda way, assumes that the same is true for Tony in regards to Tony’s (LGBTQ+ sense) sexuality, and that they have this shared identity in common, Tony freaks out. It feels like he’s been pushed into a box, and not only is it a box (which Tony hates), it’s a box that is traditionally looked down upon, which carries a whole mess of shame and guilt, and then feeling ashamed of being ashamed, or not supportive of Harley, and...yeah. It's an Issue. And add to that that he’s completely blindsided by being ‘outed’ (even though he’s not technically hiding it) by people he thought he could trust. Tony has every reason to be freaking out. Pepper and Rhodey weren’t necessarily in the wrong here, because they had every reason to believe Tony would be fine with Harley knowing (and ultimately, he is). But Tony doesn’t emotions good, so this is what we get.
> 
> **The Bible Verse that Tony starts to quote**  
>  Is Romans 13:4: “But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid, for he beareth not the sword in vain; for he is the minister of God, an avenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.” (KJ21—21st Century King James Version)  
> Did I choose it because it’s Avenger-themed? …maybe.
> 
>  **Reminder to Vote**  
>  If you’re in the US and you haven’t yet voted, go vote!!! Vote vote vote vote vote. Please. (Unless you are voting for Trump, in which case…don’t.)


	23. II-6. The Bleak Midwinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's time in prison, part II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back with another fun happy chapter in my fun happy story. 
> 
> L o l who am I kidding it’s depression central around here.
> 
> CW for cold; hunger; sleep deprivation, coerced medicating; homophobia; bullying; death of a parent; loss & grief; death of a teenager (relayed, no one we know); teen pregnancy & parenthood; death of a romantic partner; lack of access/being able to afford medical care; giving up a child for adoption
> 
> I don’t *think* this chapter needs a summary at the beginning of next chapter, but please let me know if you think that it does, and I’ll include one! Next chapter is already written, so I’ll be posting it soon.

Christmas Day dawned _cold_. Peter woke around 3:00am, shivering, and couldn’t get back to sleep until the alarms went off at 6:00. Instead, he alternated between pacing the room and bouncing to warm up—mindful of not revealing his powers—and curling into a ball under his thin blanket with all his limbs tucked into his sweatshirt and shivering.

At breakfast, he dropped next to Jesús and Marco and some of their friends, blowing on his fingers for warmth. It was slightly better in the cafeteria, but still chilly, and Peter had already been reprimanded for keeping his arms inside his sleeves. “Merry Christmas,” he muttered darkly under his breath. “Did they turn the heat off as a special gift just for us?”

Marco snorted. Jesús grimaced. He was sitting on his hands and staring at his food like he could telekenisis it into his mouth. He scowled around the room. Jesús was not a morning person.

The line for meds after breakfast was sullen and tense. Peter was half-tempted to palm his Concerta—as he was every day—but they checked, and Peter had been informed in no uncertain terms that he had to take it for his ADHD. Because who fucking cared that he’d told them he used to be on it and he hated the way it made him feel? It was supposed to make him “more manageable.” There were almost no kids in the entire facility who weren’t on some form of meds.

Peter thought maybe his spider-powers were saving him here, metabolizing the medicine too fast for it to effect him, but he wasn’t entirely sure. He was tired and nervous and his brain felt foggy all the time, which could be side effects, but that was probably also because he wasn’t sleeping and he wasn’t getting enough food—probably even for a normal teenager, let alone an enhanced one—and he was locked in a literal prison with his every move being watched and his entire future hanging in the balance and the stupid alarms just _kept blaring_ and his senses wouldn’t shut up. Prison really, really sucked.

Peter turned the water in his morning shower as hot as it would go, and basked in the blessed heat for a full five minutes before a bang on the door told him he had to get out. He toweled off as quickly as possible and pulled on his clothes before wandering out into the halls. No school on Christmas, so he was free to hang out in his room with the door open or the common area.

In the common room, Marco was sunk into a beanbag chair. Peter went over and sat on the floor next to him and worked on his entry for the Stark competition. It was a pain in the ass to write by hand, but at least it was easier to draw diagrams on paper?

Marco was also working on a pad of legal paper with a blunt pencil. He had books and papers all around him: legal stuff, mostly, working on his appeal. He nodded at Peter as he approached, but didn’t say anything. Marco didn’t speak a lot. That was kinda nice, though. Recently, Peter didn’t speak a lot either. It was so much effort, always watching his words. Better to not say anything.

The two of them worked in silence all morning. Peter tuned out all the noise and activity around him, pushed down the hunger and cold, ignored everything outside of pencil and paper as he tried to create a professional scientific proposal with only his memory for guidance. Thank fucking God he’d basically had to memorize all his notes anyway, writing them down at night on the Caldwells’ walls and erasing them in the morning.

Peter ground his jaw. The longer he’d been in here, the more he found himself doing that. _Thank God I got so used to following orders at the Caldwells. Thank God I always remember to call grown-ups ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ because that was drilled into me at the Caldwells. Thank God I have practice at acting subservient because of the Calwells. Thank God I have practice not eating enough and my food always being cold and being locked in an empty room all night because of the fucking Caldwells._ It was bullshit, and he needed to stop thinking like that. He refused—he _refused_ —to be grateful to them.

But he was.

And the lessons he’d learned there were the only reason he hadn’t already gotten into trouble for speaking back or got in a fight or got beat up or sent to confinement or had his room stripped here.

He refused to let this system beat him down, to make him give up hope.

But he was.

He clenched his fist around his stupidly dull pencil, and kept writing. He could do this. He wasn’t going to give up. He was Spider-Man. He could do this.

His pencil snapped in his hand.

Peter flinched away from the sharp _crack_ , surprised, his senses still on high alert from the constant motion and alarms. He stared down at the broken pencil in his numb fingers. Fucking great.

“Parker!” barked one of the guards. “You treat facility property with respect.”

Peter’s jaw twitched. He’d gained a passing familiarity with most of the guards over the past five days, and this guy was one of the ones who liked lording his power over the kids. A bully, even if Peter hadn’t seen it cross over into the physical yet. And he looked _pissed_ at having to work on Christmas. “Sorry, sir,” said Peter, hanging onto his temper by a bare thread.

The guard humphed. “You better be. Pick up the pieces, hand ‘em over.”

Slowly, slowly, Peter complied, placing the pieces of the snapped pencil in the guard’s outstretched hand. He was distinctly aware that the whole room was looking at him, but trying not to make it seem like they were looking. His spidey-sense was humming at a constant buzz. Nothing immediately incoming, but this could be bad.

The guard looked him over. “And?”

Out through the mouth, in through the nose. “And?” Peter echoed, struggling to keep his tone bland. “Sir,” he added.

_Eyes down. Subservient. Avoid making trouble. You can do this, Parker. Disciplinary strike means no good plea deal. No good plea deal means no Ned. No MJ. No kids. No Spider-Man. This is too important for you to fuck it up with your stupid pride, Parker._

_“And_ , what do you say about inappropriately taking out your temper on facility property?”

“It was an accide-!” Peter cut himself off. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. “I apologize for disrespecting myself by disrespecting the institution and the property entrusted to me.” It was rote at this point. He was not going to roll his eyes. He was _not_.

The tension didn’t go away. Peter wanted to walk away, but he knew that was a bad idea. Couldn’t turn his back until he was dismissed.

“Yo, McIntyre!” The shout broke through the air. Jesús, hopping up from the couch, where he’d been playing video games with some of the other boys. He bounced over to McIntyre—a different guard, a chiller one who was actually somewhat nice. “Why is it so fucking cold? I’m freezing my balls off in here, man.”

“Language,” said McIntyre, but it wasn’t a harsh reprimand.

And just like that, the tension was broken. Bully Prison Guard, whose name Peter couldn’t remember, twitched in annoyance, but he couldn’t do anything to stop the distraction without undermining his fellow guard in front of the inmates. And that was a big no-no. Peter sagged in relief.

He’d thank Jesús later.

He went back to his study space with Marco and dropped down by his notes. “Hey, could you—”

Marco passed him another pencil before Peter could even finish his question.

“Thanks.”

* * *

Peter knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the visiting room. Lots of families were here for Christmas, but Peter’s gaze snapped straight to Ned and Mrs. Leeds. Ned hadn’t visited him yet, and Peter felt a pit of anxiety—completely unrelated to any superpowers—pool in his stomach.

“Ned.”

They sat across from each other, Mrs. Leeds hanging back to give them some illusion of privacy. Her face was stony and closed-off.

Something was wrong.

“Peter.” Ned’s voice broke, and his face crumpled, and Peter _knew_. Why else would Ned and Mrs. Leeds come visit him on _Christmas_ , instead of staying in the hospital with his dad?

“Oh, God, Ned,” Peter breathed. “Your dad?”

At Ned’s nod, he pressed his arm against the plexiglass. “I’m so sorry.” Only a little more pressure, and he could snap the whole thing, reach through and grab Ned up into a hug. Ned had been there for Ben; he had been there for May. How _dare_ Peter not be there for him now?

But he _couldn’t_. He couldn’t, because he was in prison. He couldn’t, because if he broke the glass in front of everyone, they would all know he was enhanced and they’d send him to even worse prison. He couldn’t, because he’d been stupid and trusting enough to get caught, and now he wasn’t allowed to be a person, to be a friend.

He could just press up close against the glass and listen to Ned cry.

This was all wrong.

“I’m gonna get out, Ned, promise, and I’m gonna give you the best hug ever, but right now I’m sending you, like, a psychic hug, and I love you so much, and I know it really, really sucks…” He kept babbling, saying nothing but just needing to let Ned know that he was there. Even though he _wasn’t_. Peter wanted to hurl himself at the rooftops.

Ten minutes before the end of visiting hours, Ned wiped his face and sniffed back the tears. “Peter,” he muttered, low. Lower than Peter had thought Ned was _capable_ of speaking. Ned had never been good at maintaining an indoor voice, but now he was speaking too quietly to hear without Peter’s enhanced senses. “Okay, so, you’re my best friend always, right? I’m your guy in the chair, until the end no matter what.”

Peter swallowed against the dread coiling in his stomach. Something bad was coming. Something even worse. Somehow.

“No, no! It’s nothing like that,” Ned hissed at his expression. “But my mom’s being super weird and overprotective, and she wouldn’t let me come visit until I did a serious guilt-trip and promised she could talk to you alone. I think it’s just…the grief”—his voice cracked over the word—“but, Peter, you’ve gotta promise me, okay? No matter what she says. No matter what. You know how overprotective she can be. And I know you, and I know you’re gonna listen and blame yourself for all this and isolate and try to push me away because you think you’re protecting me, and Peter…I _can’t_. I can’t do that right now. I can’t lose you, too. You’re my best friend, and I need you in my life. So, please, even if we gotta go around my mom to see each other, don’t do anything stupid, okay, and don’t listen to her. I need my best friend. Okay?”

Peter blinked back tears, and nodded. He tried to push down the guilt coiling in his gut.

“Promise?”

He nodded again.

“You gotta actually say it, Peter, otherwise you’ll wiggle out.”

It took Peter several tries to choke out a brief, “Promise.”

“Okay.” Ned nodded, a lot calmer. “Okay. I love you, Peter, okay? And you’re staying in my life no matter what, got it?”

Peter tried to smile. “Got it,” he mouthed. “I love you too.” He couldn’t quote voice the words, too hurting inside. Despite Ned’s words, it felt like good-bye. It felt like forever.

He couldn’t do this.

But he couldn’t do anything to stop it, either.

* * *

Mrs. Leeds’ talk was just as painful as Ned had predicted. The worst was that she was so _nice_ about it. “I know things have been difficult for you, Peter. And you’ve been a good friend to Ned in the past. But recently? You’ve been doing dangerous things. I haven’t—I haven’t been home as much as I should be, but I’m not oblivious. I know you’ve been involving Ned in whatever it is you’re doing. You’ve been putting Ned in danger. You’re putting Ned in a place where he could get hurt. Where he could get arrested, lose his scholarship. That’s not…that’s not a healthy friendship, Peter. For him or you.”

She was crying. Peter wasn’t; he was all cried out.

“I have to put my son first,” she whispered. “I can’t lose him too.”

Peter’s heart _wrenched_.

“If you love him,” said Mrs. Leeds, “if you actually want to be a good friend to him, please: don’t get him hurt by dragging him down into this, whatever this is.I’m sure you understand, it’s best if you stay away. Just until you’ve got yourself sorted out. Please, Peter, I am begging you: please promise me that you won’t hurt my son.”

Peter was so dizzy. He hadn’t eaten enough in days. The room spun around him. The flourescent lights hummed. There were families laughing nearby, people singing Christmas carols in their own, happier family visits. It was cold. Peter floated somewhere behind his own head.

“I promise, Mrs. Leeds,” his mouth whispered. He didn’t remember giving it the order to do that. But he meant it. Of course he meant it.

He’d meant his promise to Ned, too.

But he couldn’t keep both.

* * *

“The fuck you crying about?”

Peter vaguely recognized that someone was talking to him, but he just didn’t give a shit. It was a few days after Christmas, and he wasn’t even crying anymore, just staring blankly at the monkey bars in the yard. Bright orange against the dull gray of the sky and barbed wire. He didn’t quite get how the orange was so orange. Especially since the sky was so pale and bright.

The wind slapped against his face.

The kid got up in his space now, and Peter sort-of recognized him. He went by Prince, but Peter wasn’t sure if that was his first name or last name or a nickname. One of the older kids there, angry and big and a bully. Peter had managed to avoid him up until now, had managed to avoid almost everyone besides Marco and Jesús, but apparently his luck had run out. “Sad your mommy left you here to rot for the holidays?”

Peter rolled with the shove and stumbled out of the way. He didn’t respond, just ducked his head and made himself small. He knew how to deal with simple bullies; he’d had lots of practice at school. Sometimes if you didn’t react and managed to get out of eyesight, they’d lose interest.

Key word there: sometimes.

This was not one of those times.

Prince followed him as he ducked closer to the monkey bars. “You think you’re better than us, huh? You think cuz you’re doing that college scholarship shit or whatever that you can just ignore the rest of us like you’re some kind of fuckin pampered, pansy-ass prince?”

If Peter were Spider-Man right now, he’d have said, _No, no._ You’re _the Prince. I know it’s gotta be pretty hard to remember something as complicated as your own name, but you can do it._

Maybe Prince had a point that Peter was a bit pretentious.

No time to think about that: Prince was stalking towards him, violence promised in every step.

The world went clear, coherent. All his grief, all his pain, the tired, exhausted haze he’d been in for weeks now, all vanished. It was just Peter, the biting air, and Prince. Anticipation of a fight.

For a single, crystal-clear moment, everything felt right. Simple. _Win, don’t hurt him, don’t get hurt_. Easy and familiar.

Peter grinned.

But it wasn’t easy. Of course it wasn’t. Nothing was ever easy anymore. Peter wasn’t Spider-Man right now. He couldn’t afford to get in a fight. He couldn’t even afford to take a beating. One, because Spider-Man. If his strength wasn’t revealed, his healing factor _would_ be with a conflict this public. And two, because _everyone_ in a fight got marks on their record, even if they hadn’t started it, even if they hadn’t fought back, and that would be bad for any hope he had at a deal. So he had to deescalate this shit without violence somehow.

 _Okay_. That was a problem with a solution. Not a solution he could think of right then, but there had to be some way. Peter could figure this out. He felt his lips quirk up in a smirk, anticipating the challenge. Finally, something he could _do_.

“What are you smiling at? You laughing at me, pipsqueak? You’re fucking dead, freak.”

 _Whoops_.

Peter ducked under a grasping fist and backpedaled towards the monkey bars, hands held out. “Hey,” he said, soft. “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.” Like he was soothing a wounded animal. He knew there were probably more words, better words, but he couldn’t think of them right then.

“You little _prick_.”

Peter twisted behind the bars holding up the structure to avoid the next grab. They had the guards’ attention now, but none of them were making a move yet. There hadn’t been actual violence so far, and Peter wasn’t sure when—or if—they would intervene.

Duck, and dodge, and—oh _fuck_. Peter jumped up on pure instinct to avoid a nasty blow to his gut, grabbed the monkey bars and flipped to land on top of them.

His heart pounded in his ears. He didn’t think he’d done anything that couldn’t _theoretically_ be done without powers, but that was definitely not a thing a normal kid could do.

 _Everyone_ was looking now. Jeering calls and a growing chant of _fight, fight, fight, fight_.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck. Think_ , _Parker, think_.

But the thoughts weren’t coming.

Prince was, hauling himself up after Peter until they were both crouched on top of the monkey bars.

“Hey, man,” Peter flashed his hands up in surrender. “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”

“You don’t want any trouble, huh, pipsqueak?” Prince’s voice was angry and incredulous. “Then you shouldn’t have fucking disrespected me.”

 _I didn’t_ , Peter wanted to say, but the words got stuck. Because in this weird world he’d found himself in, he _had_. Just by existing in the wrong place, by not taking the punch, by smiling and not rolling over. Peter still didn’t know all the rules, hadn’t been there long enough to be truly certain what was and wasn’t allowed, but it was startlingly more like prison movies than he’d thought it would be.

He hopped back a bar as Prince surged forward.

A sharp alarm cut through the air. Yard time was over.

Peter moved as Prince lunged. Air whistled by him as Peter launched himself off the monkey bars to land as far away as he thought a normal person could. He fell hard on frozen concrete, but was up and running as soon as he hit the ground.

He skid to a halt on front of a guard— _hands behind your back, eyes down,_ desparately trying to ignore the shouted threats aimed at his back, and the steady blare of _danger_ from his spidey-senses.

“Watch your fucking back, Parker!” called Prince, and Peter tried not to flinch. He wasn’t scared—not of violence, not anymore—but he had no idea how he was going to get out of this with his secret identity intact.

And if they found out who he was, Peter wouldn’t just be left in this prison here. Which, as horrible as it had been, was apparently pretty good, as prisons went. No, if they found out Peter was enhanced at all—let alone if they found out he was Spider-Man—they wouldn’t keep him here.

They’d send him to the Raft.

* * *

After the “altercation” in the yard, Peter had to go to a counseling session.

“How are you feeling, Peter?” asked the counselor, which was a really idiotic question.

“Cold,” he said. The heater that had broken sometime Christmas night and still hadn’t been fixed, though they’d brought in space heaters to the cafeteria and common areas. The counselor was wearing his winter coat inside his office. Peter was wearing his standard-issue sweats.

The counselor’s face twisted. “The heating should be fixed soon, and facility temperatures are still in the sixties. That’s within acceptable levels.”

Room temperature, Peter knew very well from all sorts of chemical storage ranges, was generally defined as being about 20 degrees Celcius, or 68 degrees Farenheit, at the _lowest_. There was no way they were anywhere near that. Maybe they were in the _low_ sixties. _Maybe_.

He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t like it would do anything besides cement him as a troublemaker.

“We’re not here to talk about the weather, Peter. You wanna tell me what happened this afternoon?”

 _No_. Peter sunk into his seat, trying to curl up around himself to conserve heat.

“Peter, I can’t help you if you’re not willing to help yourself and work with me, here.”

Peter didn’t say anything. What was the point? He couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted to say that wouldn’t get him in trouble.

So, silence it was.

It was a long hour.

* * *

After counseling, Peter was released to the rec room to hang out before dinner. Prince wasn’t there, but neither were Jesús or Marco. Peter stuck to a corner where he could see anyone approaching, and pretended to work on his Stark project.

In reality, he was making escape plans. It would be easy to get out of the jail. He could break his window with almost no effort, climb out, and flip over the barbed wire fence. If he got a little cut up on the way, his healing would take care of it. Or he could probably fight his way out the front door without too much trouble. He wasn’t sure where exactly all the cameras were, though, or how to escape without completely revealing or leaving behind some trace of his powers.

He was hungry. He was so fucking hungry. And cold. And tired. His head spun, and he couldn’t _think_ , and he couldn’t stop shivering. There had to be a way out.

His head throbbed, with fear or tiredness or anger or his warped spidey-sense warning him of danger, he didn’t know. No one attacked him in the rec room before dinner, but Peter knew better than to think he was safe.

He sat alone at dinner, ignoring the whispers and pointed stares. His head hurt too much to make sense of all the overlapping noise.

Someone dropped into the seat next to him. Peter jumped in his seat before he realized who it was. Marco.

He nodded in nervous greeting.

Marco nodded back and started shoveling food into his mouth. Peter watched, his own food having been devoured as soon as he sat down.

When he was done eating, Marco spoke. “Didn’t know you could do cool flips and shit.”

Peter shrugged and didn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t know how to explain that.

Marco nodded and didn’t pry. “Prince…” He seemed to be thinking very carefully about his words. “His parents didn’t come for Christmas.”

Peter nodded. He’d figured as much from the older boy’s taunts. Peter didn’t even _have_ a mother, so it didn’t really make sense to try and rile him up by claiming she’d left him here to rot. “And now he’s looking for a fight.” Peter finished the thought.

“He found one,” Marco corrected. “He and Jesús got into it.”

Peter stiffened. “ _What?_ Is Jesús okay? What happened?”

Marco shrugged. “I wasn’t there. They’re both on lockdown until New Year’s. Got their rooms stripped and supervised rec only.” He turned to look at Peter. “You should be good, at least for the next week or so.”

Peter gaped up at him. Jesús had…what? started a fight and got himself and Prince in trouble? For _Peter_? To protect _him_? It didn’t make any sense. He didn’t even really know Jesús. “ _Why_?” he asked.

Marco just shrugged. “He does that. Can you read over my draft appeal tonight? I think it’s pretty good, but I don’t know if I’m using all the fancy words right.”

“Yeah,” said Peter, mind still reeling and heavy with guilt. “Of course.”

* * *

By New Year’s, the heating still wasn’t fixed, but Peter finally got the opportunity to properly thank Jesús. They were in the yard again, and Peter managed to drag him away to walk around the periphery and talk.

The other boy didn’t look at all upset about his recent punishment on Peter’s behalf. “What’s up, little man?” Jesús was bouncing on the balls of his feet to keep warm.

Peter had long since given up on that. He didn’t have the energy anymore, too cold to sleep, too cold to think, too cold to do anything but feel the gnaw sunk deep into his bones no matter what he did. _What he wouldn’t give for a hot meal instead of the lukewarm shit they were serving. What he wouldn’t give for enough food to feel full, even if it was frozen._ He was so tired, head blurry in a way he’d never felt before, thoughts swimming in an endless soupy mire of sleep deprivation and hunger and the neverending cold. He couldn’t _think_.

It didn’t matter. He just had to deal.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was rough and hoarse with disuse, and Peter realized with a start that he hadn’t spoken since he’d gone over Marco’s appeal. Three whole days.

Jesús eyed him over. “What for?”

Peter just looked at him. _You know exactly what for._

Jesús ran a finger through his cornrows. “Yeah, whatever. No problem, newbie. No big deal.”

Peter shook his head. It _was_ a big deal. He didn’t know how to put that into words though. How to sort through all the things he could and couldn’t say, the constant watching eyes and listening ears just waiting for him to trip up. “ _Thank you_ ,” he settled on, repeating the phrase and trying to convey all that in the two simple words.

Jesús just shrugged, uncomfortable. “It’s what I do.”

Peter frowned. “Why?”

“Why?” Jesús echoed. “What you mean, _why_?” He scoffed. “It’s whatever, kid, don’t worry about it.”

Peter cocked his head, considering. He sat down on the concrete, in the cold shadow of the wall but relatively protected from the wind. He looked up at Jesús. “Please?”

Jesús sighed and slumped down to sit against the wall beside him. They were far enough away from everyone else to not be overheard.

“You helped Marco with his appeal, reading all that lawyer-speak and explaining it. Marco’s my people, so I guess now you’re kinda my people too, white boy. I got your back.”

A sharp wave of guilt grabbed at his lungs. “You shouldn’t,” he whispered. “Seriously. I just bring people trouble. Thanks, but it’s probably best you get out before I drag you down. More than I already have.”

Jesús snorted. “Too late. You’re stuck with me, kid. At least while you’re in here.”

“I don’t get it,” Peter admitted. “I’m not…” I’m not _anything_. I’m not worth standing up for. “I’m not worth it,” he said.

“More worth it than me.” Jesús sighed. “I ain’t getting out of here. Not really. Don’t have anything to go back to, anyway. But Marco, you…y’all two got a chance.”

“You should have a chance, too.” Peter pressed on over Jesús dismissive noise. “No, really, it’s not on _you_ to throw yourself under the bus just to help everybody else.” Peter was vaguely aware that he was being hypocritical, but it didn’t matter. _He_ was the one who should be paying for all his mistakes.

“It _should_ be on me,” Jesús insisted. “I got…I got a lot to make up for.” His voice was low and pained, and Peter wasn’t sure if he would have heard it without super-hearing.

“You seem like a good person to me,” said Peter. It was the best he could do, and he didn’t want to press on what was obviously a painful topic. Instead he just sat there, trying to think of something to say.

Jesús didn’t say anything for a few minutes, just _tap-tap-tapping_ his hand against his leg where it was scrunched up in his pocket for whatever meagre protection that offered from the biting chill. Their breath fogged in the air.

“I ever tell you about my daughter?”

Peter frowned, made a so-so bobble with his head. “You’ve mentioned her.” _But not really seriously, I guess._

Jesús nodded. “Alaia,” He spoke her name with reverence. “She’s eight months now. Her mother, Frida, we went to school together. I was stupid, didn’t use a condom, and suddenly she’s pregnant and I’m freaking out because I don’t know _shit_ , I’m fifteen and I can’t be a dad, but Frida, she had three little sisters and she was dead calm and knew how to do _everything_. And we was so excited, because, this could be something good, you know? Like, even though things were rough, we’d love her and she’d know she was loved. We’d be better than our parents was. Alaia, it means happy. Frida chose it.”

There was something in his face that lit up at that, _Frida chose it_ , like that simple statement was a miracle in and of itself. But there was also something sad in it, and Peter swallowed against the lump forming in his gut.

“And it _was_ good, you know,” Jesús continued, “for a few days after she got born? Frida was shaky, yeah, but we thought it was just cause she’d popped out a whole fucking human, you feel? But it wasn’t. She’d got sick from the hospital, or maybe the birth, and she kept getting shakier and shakier and by the time we got in to see the doctor it was too late. She was just…we was so happy, and then she was just, gone. And it was just me and Alaia.” His voice trembled. Then he pulled into himself and shrugged.

“I ain’t ever meant to be a father, you know? I ain’t even know what the different formulas are, or how to change a diaper, or, like, any words to lullabies and shit. And I learned, or I tried to learn, but it’s just _so much_ , and everything I did, it seemed like I was just failing my little girl. I’m not good, at like, focusing, or school shit, or not running my mouth and I can’t keep a fucking job and Frida was dead and I just _couldn’t keep going_.”

“But I _did_. For her. My Alaia. ‘Cept babies is expensive, and I couldn’t afford it plus rent without Frida, but we was doing it, her and me. There’s these programs that help, but there’s so much paperwork, and I ain’t really understand the forms and all, and they needed all these documents, and Frida wasn’t there, and then her medical bills came down and the electricity got cut off, and I just…I got desperate, and I got stupid. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I was trying to get busted, because after Frida died it was just too much and I…” He trailed off, shook his head.

“But now I been in here four months and I’m in for another three years. They’ll transfer me to Rikers when I hit eighteen. And Alaia, she probably ain’t even know my face no more. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see her again. And that’s the worst thing I ever done, is I left my baby girl like that, I failed her and I just didn’t think and I can’t ever fix that. Probably the best thing I could do for her is give up my rights and never see her again. Let her get adopted by a nice family.”

There was a long moment of silence. Just the wind and the distant noise of the other inmates in the yard.

“Fuck,” said Peter, because there wasn’t anything else to say.

“Yeah. Just hope they put her somewhere nice, where they can buy, like, the _good_ formula and shit. I hope she’s better off there, ‘cuz I know this is really shitty and selfish to say, but _I’m_ better off here.” His voice broke and he swallowed down tears.

“Like, I know it ain’t great, but I got three meals a day and I’m getting catch-up classes for school and I don’t get beat unless I do something stupid like pick a fight. They put me on these meds that make it a bit easier to think, you know, and I’m not fucking up a whole ‘nother human being just by existing and not being good enough. So, if I get in trouble, big whoop. I stay here longer, get my room stripped, whatever. It’s still better than wherever I’d be outside.”

Jesús chewed his cheek. “But you, junkie? Marco? Y’all could have something. A future outside of here. You two, you’re trying to do something good. Play by the rules. You know Marco just willingly turned himself in? Thought he could clear up any miscommunication ‘cuz he got an airtight alibi for when those robberies were supposed to have happened. He was with his mom in Jersey. And she told the cops that too but they said she was lying and it didn’t matter anyway. Witness put him at the scene. And now he’s trynna do the whole appeal thing all by hisself. And you, trynna get that scholarship. It’s like, y’all still got a chance. But for me, this is the best it gets. So, it’s better if I take the hits. I guess I’m just…making up for my mistakes. Trynna make something good with my life for once. For her.”

Peter didn’t know if _her_ was Frida or Alaia. He wasn’t sure if anything good _could_ come out of this. His heart ached with too many different emotions. They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching their breath fog up in the air.

“Can I give you a hug?” Peter broke the silence.

Jesús flinched. His eyes darted around the yard, and he shifted uncomfortably against the wall. “Get off me with that gay shit, man,” he mumbled, but there was no heat in his voice. “Not cool.”

“Yeah, whatever. Sure.” Peter tried to casually shrug it off. Tried to ignore the twisting knot of hurt and shame and fear and anger that came with the reminder he was still in the closet here, that it wasn’t safe or okay for him to be _Peter_ , let alone Spider-Man. Tried to ignore the fact that he could really use a hug, that _Jesús_ could probably really use a hug.

They sat in the cold and didn’t say anything else.

There weren’t any words left.

* * *

* * *

**Chapter End Notes** (we’re doing them here in the main body of the chapter because they got too long, as I’m apparently writing essays now in addition to the story. It brings me joy; feel free to read or skip as you so desire):

Everybody is SUFFERING muahahahaha.

[Here](https://adq631j7v3x1shge52cot6m1-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/NEWS-CrossroadsDSC_7226_EDITED.jpg) is the picture (which is indeed of Crossroads) that kind of inspired me for the monkey bars scene. Except it’s more of a uniform, light gray cloudy sky in my imagination.

I learned today that minors can’t do visitation unless they’re accompanied by their legal guardian at all times, but I really don’t see MJ being able to swing that with how I view her parents, so…whoops? MJ got to visit Peter because she’s MJ. Or this is yet another of the many rule changes that come from being a superhero world,,,somehow…

**The maternal mortality rate in the US**

  * The rate of death for pregnant people during pregnancy, birth, or within 42 days of birth in the US is absolutely terrible. (See, e.g., [link](https://www.vox.com/2020/1/30/21113782/pregnancy-deaths-us-maternal-mortality-rate) ).
  * It is the highest when compared to 49 other countries in the developed world. People who give birth in the US usually meet with their physicians just once after delivery, six weeks after giving birth. Pregnant people, especially people of color, have difficulty with access to prenatal and postpartum care, and this can lead to many health problems remaining unchecked and eventually sometimes to death.
  * This is all exacerbated by the fact that our healthcare system is completely inaccessible for so many people, and many more are afraid to go to the doctor’s because of the medical costs.



**Juvenile Justice & Mental Health**

  * Approximately 50 to 75 percent of the 2 million youth encountering the juvenile justice system meet criteria for a mental health disorder ([source](https://www.vox.com/2020/1/30/21113782/pregnancy-deaths-us-maternal-mortality-rate))
  * A 2004 congressional study concluded that every day approximately 2,000 youth are incarcerated _simply because community mental health services are unavailable_ and that in 33 states, juvenile detention centers held mentally ill youth without charges ([source](https://www.americanbar.org/groups/public_interest/child_law/resources/child_law_practiceonline/child_law_practice/vol30/september_2011/an_overview_of_juvenilementalhealthcourts))
  * Additionally, Research has shown that long-term confinement in the justice system alone is detrimental to mental health (duh)
  * This is worse for kids in foster care, because foster parents are often unwilling to take in kids who have been institutionalized



**Peter & the Cold**

  * I’m not doing the “spiders can’t thermoregulate” thing, because I’m not really sure how to do it without Peter dying. New York in the winter is cold, y’all (see the links below about prison conditions in NYC in 2019), and the wind chill makes it even colder. Peter spends a lot of time outdoors, and he’s not hibernating or going into diapause (though I did learn that some spiders produce antifreeze when it’s cold out, which is really cool). I do think it makes sense for him to get cold more quickly than most people though, because he has almost no body fat and he burns through energy like crazy.
  * On the plus side, his mutant fat-to-muscle thing helps him maintain a more stereotypically “male” fat distribution! So, trade-offs!!
  * note: I edited out a reference to this in Chapter 15—now it just says that Peter gets cold easily



**Freezing Temperatures in Jails—Failing Infrastructure:**

Articles about a jail in Brooklyn last year (2019) had no heat or power for a week during the polar vortex:

  * [No Heat for Days at a Jail in Brooklyn Where Hundreds of Inmates Are Sick and ‘Frantic’](https://www.nytimes.com/2019/02/01/nyregion/mdc-brooklyn-jail-heat.html)
  * [Brooklyn jail without heat reflects wider neglect in federal prisons, critics warn](https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/brooklyn-jail-without-heat-reflects-wider-neglect-federal-prisons-critics-n966841) (also focusing on wider neglect of prisons)
  * note that when these articles say temperatures were at 2˚ degrees outside, that’s 2˚ Farenheit, or about about -17˚ celcius.



Another good read on the general problem, from 2014:

  * [themarshallproject.org/2014/12/09/it-s-not-the-heat](https://www.themarshallproject.org/2014/12/09/it-s-not-the-heat)
  * Notable quote from that article: “Since 2002 [until 2014], at least 14 inmate deaths in Texas have been linked to sweltering prison conditions. Concerns about extreme prison temperatures were even raised by the United Nations Committee Against Torture in late November; the UN’s report cited deaths in “unbearably hot and poor ventilated prison facilities in Arizona, California, Florida, New York, Michigan and Texas.”
  * The article also discusses multiple jails across the country where inmates died of hypothermia due to faulty heating systems—often, staff in these jails would wear winter clothes indoors, while inmates were not allowed many clothes or blankets (as a precaution against suicide)



**Cruel and Inhumane Treatment in Juvenile Facilities:**

(tw for torture and abuse, including sexual abuse and rape, of children):

If you want to learn about some really infuriating and horrible abuses of power in juvenile facilities:

  * [Here](https://www.clearinghouse.net/chDocs/public/JI-OH-0009-0003.pdf) is a complaint in a lawsuit against a juvenile detention facility in Ohio alleging that in 2013 and 2014, the kids in that facility were frequently kept in solitary confinement cells, nearly naked, without access to blankets and temperatures in the mid-50s, resulting in multiple symptoms of hypothermia and frostbite. The kids were also often restrained in chairs and unable to move anything but their heads for hours at a time, not allowed out even to go to the bathroom, denied food and water, and shackled for days. They would try to stuff the airconditioning vents with toilet paper or flood their rooms to get out, and would then be subjected to additional “punishment” for those infractions. The case was settled outside of the court in 2015.
  * New Hampshire’s Office of the Child Advocate released [a report in January of 2020](http://indepthnh.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/OCA-Restraint-Seclusion-Review-2020-1-8-6.pdf) that found “more than 20,000 incidents of children being restrained or secluded in the state’s residential facilities during a recent five-year period, with 15,544 of them involving restraints.” This included the use of prone, or face-down, restraints, banned in many states because it is dangerous, dehumanizing, and potentially lethal. The Office of the Child Advocate was itself created in response to the deaths of children in custody in 2014 and 2015.
  * [ A report by the Annie E. Casey foundation ](https://www.researchgate.net/publication/281292624_Maltreatment_of_Youth_in_US_Juvenile_Corrections_Faciliites_An_Update): “[This report] tells of high rates of sexual victimization, the heavy-handed use of disciplinary isolation and a growing roster of states where confined youth have been subject to widespread abuse.” The report went on to conclude, “The troubling evidence presented in this report should remove any remaining doubt that large conventional juvenile corrections facilities — or plainly stated, youth prisons — are inherently prone to abuse. Given public officials’ inability to prevent maltreatment, or even to clean up youth prisons where inhumane conditions are revealed, it seems difficult to argue that confinement in these institutions offers a safe approach for rehabilitating delinquent youth.”
  * This report also found that there is a “continuing national epidemic of sexual abuse in state-funded juvenile corrections facilities.” (7.7 percent of confined youth reported one or more sexual victimization incidents involving facility staff and 2.5 percent reported at least one incident involving non-consensual sexual contact with other youth. (Some youth — 0.7 percent — reported being victimized sexually by both youth and staff.) This is only the stuff that was reported. Also, the vast majority (89%) of sexual abuse by staff was done by female perpetrators against male youth. Rape and sexual assault of men/boys by women is a real and serious problem.



In sum:

These are the cases that have been publicized. These are the abuses of power that we know about. Prisons as they exist in the United States today, especially juvenile prisons, are unconscionable. But because people in jails are considered less than human, we don’t actually *hear* about this stuff. Or if we do, we don’t care. An erosion of human rights somewhere is an attack on human rights everywhere, and we, as humans, need to recognize each other’s humanity or this will never end.

 _“ Who knows but that, on the lower frequencies, I speak for you?”_ Too many people don’t get to speak at all.


	24. II-7. Supreme Court, Youth Part (Strike 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes to court. Harley makes an enemy. Pepper receives a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could be wrong, but I don’t *think* there are any specific trigger warnings in this one? If you’ve made it this far, this chapter will be a piece of cake. A sad, stale, depressing piece of cake with a few bright sprinkles thrown in there for variety, but cake nonetheless. Let me know if you think I need to add anything here!

On January 4th, the first Monday after New Year’s, the courts reopened.

On Tuesday, Rhee met Peter at the courthouse. Also there were: Marie; D’Angelo Michaels, Marie’s friend-of-a-friend from law school who’d taken on Peter’s criminal case; Lila Bowen and Julian Sentora, the prosecutors on the case; and a cop who was there to watch Peter like the kid’d spring up and attack them at any moment. Peter was still wearing those godawful prison sweats. Marie’d managed to scrounge up some semi-professional clothes for him to change into if they actually went before the grand jury.

But before that could happen, they all got to have a nice, friendly meeting in a room too small to be called a closet.

The lawyers started right out the gate with their posturing.

“This is ridiculous,” said D’Angelo. “My client is a _child_ who was trying to protect his younger siblings and didn’t cause any permanent harm. He has already been detained for fifteen days, and it would be a gross miscarriage of justice to continue this farce in charging him. Any jury would immediately fall in love with him. Let’s chalk this up to stress around the holidays, drop all the charges, and everyone can go home happy.”

Lila Bowen snorted in response. “Your client is perfectly old enough to understand the difference between right and wrong, Mr. Michaels. He has committed several serious felonies. He dislocated his foster mother’s arm and physically dragged two scared children away from their parents. We’ve got assault in the first degree, two counts of kidnapping in the second degree, two counts of reckless endangerment in the first degree—and those are just the violent felonies. Add in the misdemeanors and, even considering that he’s a minor, we’re looking at a _minimum_ of eight years. _If_ the judge goes easy on sentencing. If the charges are served consecutively, we could be looking at twenty-five, thirty years.”

“That’s an untenable bluff and we both know it, counsel.”

Neither lawyer spared a glance for the small, pale boy huddled in his chair whose life was on the line.

Rhee caught Peter’s eye, tried to send him support through her gaze, but the kid just blanched and hunched down further. She couldn’t blame him.

And so it went. They argued on whether Peter should be classified as a “Juvenile Delinquent” (better for Peter) or a “Juvenile Offender” (worse for Peter). If he was a Juvenile Delinquent, they could send this case back to family court. But if he was a Juvenile Offender, then he’d stay in the state supreme court system and be tried like an adult. The only difference was that the sentencing was supposed to be less harsh, and there was a possibility his record could be sealed when he turned eighteen.

The DA’s insistence on going ahead with the assault charges meant that Peter would automatically be classified as a Juvenile Offender unless the judge this afternoon disagreed. Rhee very much doubted the judge would disagree.

“ _Even if_ —even if, Mr. Michaels, a jury would find your client not guilty, which is up for debate—we all saw the photographs of Mrs. Caldwell’s arm—how long would that take? Backlog on trials is what, four months or so now? And he’s already been denied bail, rightly so for a violent repeat runaway with no family ties. He’d be back in detention for the interim. I’m sure we all want to avoid that.”

D’Angelo’s mouth thinned. “So, you’re suggesting a solution that would mean less than four months jail time.”

The prosecutor inclined her head. “A guilty plea to kidnapping in the second degree, reckless endangerment in the second degree, and assault in the third degree. Two months detention and three years probation, until he’s eighteen. Mandatory enrollment in an ATD program on the weekends and after school, anger management classes, and an apology statement to the victims.”

D’Angelo shook his head. “Time served and no felonies. I’m not getting this kid slapped with a felony charge. Second degree custodial interference instead of kidnapping, he gets categorized as a youthful offender. Records sealed when he’s eighteen. And we get a stipulation agreeing any violations of probation are dealt with in family court, not criminal.”

“Non-violent violations for the stip. Otherwise, that should be doable. Any other concerns?”

D’Angelo considered it. “The ATD program should be waived if my client is working.”

“As long as his employer agrees to give reports to his probation officer, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

D’Angelo nodded. “May I have a moment to discuss with my client?”

He could. Rhee and Marie also got to stay for the meeting as part of Peter’s “legal team.”

“Whaddaya think, kid?” Rhee asked when the other lawyers and cop were out of the room. “This is your choice. We can counsel you, but, in the end, this is your choice.”

“I don’t know.” His voice was small. “I don’t…” He trailed off and shook his head. “I barely understood half of that. But I’m not a _criminal_. I’m not.” It sounded more like a plea than a statement.

“Yeah, kid,” said Rhee. The boy looked so lost.

D’Angelo tried to break it down for him. When he was done, he added, “I know this might be difficult to hear, but this is a good deal. This is a _really_ good deal. You got lucky with Lila Bowen; she talks a tough game, but she’s trying to push a more progressive agenda behind the scenes. No more jail time, and your record will be sealed when you turn eighteen. That’s _huge_.”

“What are his chances?” Rhee asked D’Angelo. “If we take this to trial.”

The attorney made a so-so motion with his hand. “On a jury trial? He’s sympathetic, but he did dislocate Mrs. Caldwell’s shoulder.”

“I mean, she kind of helped with that,” Peter mumbled. “And she had it coming.”

“Not helping your case, kid.” He shifted to face Peter. “The kidnapping charges probably won’t stick, but the DA will throw on all of the most serious charges they can go for plus a bunch of misdemeanors. A jury will probably find you guilty on at least one of those things. My guess on the percentages would be,”—he paused to think—“10% you’re found completely innocent, in which case you’ve been in detention for about four months and get to go free without a record; 60% you’re found guilty on some of the more minor charges and you’re sentenced to serve somewhere between a year and five years; 30% you’re found guilty of more than that, and we’re looking at over a five year sentence. The prosecutor threw out twenty, thirty years, which is unlikely, but it is possible with the charges you’re facing.”

“And if I take the deal?” Peter asked. His voice was small. “What happens then?”

“Then you’re free to walk out of here today. You can go back to your life. You’ll have to check in weekly with a probation officer, who can also do surprise home visits, and you’ll spend your evenings and weekends when you’re not at school or working in an alternative-to-detention program. Basically a mentorship thing.” He frowned, thinking. “You already have a mentorship thing set up, don’t you?”

Rhee nodded in confirmation.

“We could probably continue that as your ATD.”

Peter shrugged. “Uh…sure.”

“Your probation officer would also periodically check in with the person or people running your ATD, your fosters or group home placement, your teachers, and your employers. If any of them report continuing bad or criminal behavior, you could be called in front of a judge again and sentenced to a detention facility.”

“Peter,” Marie cut in for the first time. “You should know…you’ll most likely lose your scholarship if you take the plea deal. You might even be expelled; I don’t know your school’s specific policies.”

Peter looked sick. “And if I don’t take the deal? Will I get to stay in school then?”

Marie grimaced. “If you are found completely innocent, the school _might_ be willing to take you back and reinstate your scholarship. However—” She looked to D’Angelo. “Is there _any_ chance he’d be able to attend his old school in the lead-up to the trial? I know there have been cases where kids in facilities are allowed to attend school outside the facility during the day.”

“He’s already been denied bail,” said the lawyer, grim. “It’s very unlikely that any judge would allow that. Generally speaking, those situations are only available for nonviolent offenders.”

Marie nodded, accepting his assessment. She faced Peter. “If you don’t take the deal, you’ll be in a detention facility until trial. That will probably be _months_ from now. We could try to work something out with the school where you get to work remotely, but—” She shrugged helplessly.

“So I can’t go back to Midtown no matter what.” Peter scuffed his shoe on the floor.

“Like I said, I don’t know your school’s policies on the matter if you plead guilty. We can talk with your principal, try to figure it out.”

The look on Peter’s face said he knew just how unlikely that would be.

“We’ll get you set up in the best public school we can,” said Rhee.

“Great.” Peter scoffed. “I can go to jail for months or years, or I can say that I’m guilty and _apologize_ and lose my school and my friends and every waking hour of freedom and have a bunch of people watching me all the time until I’m eighteen.”

“You pretty much hit the nail on the head,” said D’Angelo.

“Is it always like this?” Peter asked. He slumped in his chair. “When someone gets arrested?”

“Basically,” said the lawyer. “Unless you have a lot of money.”

Peter let that sink in. “Where would I live?” he asked.

Rhee sighed. “I’ll find you a place. Foster parents are still theoretically an option, but it’s going to be harder. Most likely you’ll be in a group home or a halfway house, and unfortunately not the one you were in before. They have a strict no-convictions policy.” She met his eyes. “Not gonna lie, kid, you had trouble in the group homes before. That kind of behavior continues, you’d be going back to juvie now. No more chances.”

Peter nodded. He deliberately unclenched and reclenched his fists, thinking. “If I fight it, if I stay in—will I get to keep going on my HRT regime? How does that work?”

“In theory, yes,” Marie fielded that question. “There _should_ be doctors assigned to prescribe you the right dosages and run all the bloodwork and that. But in practice…it’s not always so smooth. We’ll keep fighting for you, out here, but the system is slow. Redressing grievances is often time-consuming.”

Peter rested his head in his hands. “Can you—” He looked up and found Marie. “Ugh, this is so stupid,” he muttered to himself. “Can you look up the rules of the Stark competition? See if pleading guilty or whatever would disqualify me from that too? I know it’s not, like, important in the scheme of things, but…”

Rhee bit back against the pang in her chest. “It’s important to you, Peter. It’s not stupid.”

Marie looked it up on her phone. There was nothing in the terms and conditions that would explicitly deny him entry if he had a criminal conviction.

Peter took the plea.

* * *

Dr. Mark Talley’s office door swung open without a warning. “Yo, Tals, this is bullshit and employee abuse and I’m totally filing a complaint with HR.”

Talley, the vice-chair of the R&D Department, paled and sent a panicked look at Pepper. She tried to reassure him with her eyes that she knew the newcomer was joking. Still, not the best look in front of your boss.

Pepper turned around to face the intruder with a stony glare.

“Oh shi—oot! Pepper, I didn’t know you were here.”

“Obviously.” Pepper raised a challenging brow. “What’s this I hear about going to HR, Mr. Keener? Are you not happy here at Stark Industries?” She didn’t let her lip twitch.

Harley narrowed his eyes. “Are you angry, or are you just pretending to be angry?”

She didn’t change her expression.

“Okay, that’s scary.” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “ _Obviously_ , I was joking about the HR thing. But if you wanna go ahead and fire me for unprofessional behavior, please do it and end my suffering. I beg you. This is hell. This is literal hell.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. She turned her back to Harley, and addressed Talley again. “If Mr. Keener is being a nuisance, please feel free to let me know and I will _deal with it_. Otherwise, I will leave you two to it. I think we’re about done with our discussion anyway.”

She didn’t _think_ there was an actual problem. The fact that Harley felt comfortable enough to sweep in here and tease Dr. Talley probably meant they were getting along. Probably. This _was_ Harley.

Dr. Talley floundered for a second before collecting himself. “It’s all in good fun, Ms. Potts.”He recovered remarkably well from the terror of having the _Tony Stark's adopted son_ burst into a meeting with the Stark CEO herself complaining about employee abuse. After all, this _was_ the man she’d chosen for his ability to corral _Tony Stark_ into something resembling reasonable without going absolutely insane. Pepper would have to have a talk with Harley about workplace-appropriate boundaries, though. His words held power now, more than he could easily conceptualize.

With a sardonic smile, Dr. Talley added, “Mr. Keener has actually been remarkably helpful when he isn’t _bursting in on private meetings to complain about the same thing twenty times_.”

Ah, good. They _were_ getting along.

“This is a new thing!” Harley protested. “Look at this!” He slapped some papers on the desk.“Look at this, Pepper. This is all your fault. What is _this_?” He jabbed at the papers with a finger.

A brief glance at the showed neat handwriting of chemical equations and diagrams on yellow legal-pad paper. “You tell me, Keener,” she said. “There are two STEM-people in this room, and I’m not one of them.”

Harley huffed and flopped down into a chair. “It’s not the _science_ that’s a problem. In fact, I’m pretty sure the science is either absolutely genius, or it’s total made-up bullshit and they’re cheating.” He glanced at Talley. “Tals, can I borrow some interns and some equipment to see if this is actually legit?”

“If you fill out the proper requisition forms first.”

“Why do hate me?”

“You really want to go into that _now_ , Keener? We’ll be here all night.”

“Oh, ha ha. But look at this!” He pointed again, obviously outraged.

“Not seeing the problem here, Keener.”

“Not seeing the—Not seeing the problem!” Harley sputtered. “It’s yellow!”

Pepper covered a snort with her hand.

“Congratulations, Keener. At this rate, with your ability to identify colors, you might just pass pre-school.”

They were _really_ getting along. Pepper suppressed a smug smile. She _knew_ putting Harley under Talley had been a good idea. Even if the kid didn’t make any friends through the internship competition thing, it was good for him to be socializing out of the penthouse. An engineer in his late sixties wasn’t exactly a normal friendship for a teenage boy, but it was _something_.

“It’s yellow paper, and it’s written in _pencil_ , and it’s _smudged,_ and the edges are ragged, and the pencil wasn’t even sharp! Like, can you read this?” He brandished the papers threateningly.

“Yes,” said Talley, straight-faced. “I am able to read. Did you need a refresher course on that skill as well?”

“Can you believe this, Pepper? What did I _do_ to deserve this torture?”

“You want that list alphabetized, or by order of severity?” she shot back.

“No one understands my problems,” Harley muttered.“I’m gonna invite this person for an interview just out of _spite_ , even if their science is awful. And then I’m gonna make them decipher all of Dr. Senjaya’s notes, as _revenge_ for making me read this smudged bullshit.”

“Wait, that’s a contest entry?” Pepper asked. That was…unprofessional, if that was the case, but nothing worth throwing a tantrum over. Just toss the entry. Don’t give that participant any awards. Done.

“Yeah! And _he”_ —Harley pointed accusingly at Dr. Talley—“is making me read and review _all_ of them. Even the stupid entries, like this one.”

“How horrible,” Pepper deadpanned.

“I know!” said Harley. “And you know what the worst part is?”

“Please, regale me.”

Harley took that as an invitation. “It’s not even stupid!”

A beat.

“You’ve lost me.”

Harley sighed and dug something out of his pocket, tossed it down on the desk on top of the papers. “Look at that!”

Pepper did. “Is that…crochet?”

“Yeah, basically. Pick it up.”

Hesitantly, she did so. She half expected it to blow up when she touched it, but it just felt like normal fabric. “It’s…soft?”

“Yes! And it’s stretchy!”

She tested it out, and indeed it was. “O…kay? Why does that matter?”

Dr. Talley also looked interested in getting to the bottom of Harley’s freakout.

“ _Because_ ,” said Harley, drawing it out—ever the dramatic shit—“the stupid pencil scribbles say that it’s bullet-proof, and that it’s strong enough to hold up to 200 tons!”

“And you’re mad that you need to test that out?” Pepper would have thought that Harley would have been overjoyed to have the chance to test if something was bullet-proof or not.

“No! I _already_ tested it out. I’m mad that it _works_!”

Talley blinked and leaned forward. “Really? The industrial applications of a material like that would be...” He shook his head.

“Huge,” Pepper and Harley finished the sentence for him at the same time. Pepper wasn’t an engineer, but she ran a tech company. She knew enough to know what was valuable and what wasn’t. Thin, flexible, durable, lightweight, _and_ strong? That was worth its weight in gold. No, scratch that. It was worth its weight in _vibranium_.

“It’s fucking genius!” Harley screamed. “And they wrote their report in fucking pencil smudges! It’s handwritten! On yellow torn-off legal paper! They’re obviously smart enough to use a computer, but they turned in this bullshit instead! _Why?_ Why would they do that? If they don’t have a computer, libraries are totally a thing! _I_ used to use the library computer for stuff all the time before Tony got me an upgrade. No, this is _malice_ , Pepper. This has _purpose_ behind it. It’s _personal_. They wanted to torture me. It’s the only explanation. They were so _arrogant_ with their stupid genius entry that they knew they could get away with this bullshit. I hate them. I hate them with the burning rage of a thousand fiery suns. This person is my nemesis now. I have a nemesis. Anonymous entry number 2-2-8-0-3. They are my worst enemy, and I am going to _destroy_ them.”

Pepper blinked. “Dr. Talley, I leave this matter in your capable hands.”

She ignored his pleading look as she walked out the door.

* * *

“Well,” said Rhee, when it was just Peter and her alone in her office, “That was a steaming pile of dogshit.”

“Yup.” For once, Peter wasn’t putting on his usual happy-go-lucky facade. Or even the snarky, cynical, jaded one. He just sounded…done.

Rhee closed her eyes and tried to come up with a to-do list. “We need to find you a new placement. We can try to—”

“Can I go back to the Fosters?” Peter interrupted.

Rhee blinked. “Really?” she asked. While Peter had certainly never _complained_ about them, she’d never gotten the feeling that he _liked_ the Fosters. Or that they’d cared one whit about him. And there still was the fact that they gave her a vibe. Of course, the Caldwells _hadn’t_ given her a vibe, so perhaps her meter was broken.

“Yeah,” said Peter. “Really.”

“Um,” Rhee scrambled for an answer. “I wasn’t aware you liked the Fosters as parents. Foster parents.”

Peter shrugged. “They were fine. Like, I’m never going to love them or really see them as family, and the feeling’s mutual. But I didn’t get in trouble there, and I understood how their rules worked. Pretty sure that’s the best I can get at this point.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Rhee rubbed her temples. “If that’s not a stinging indictment of our foster system…”

“I’m _right_ , Ms. Rhee, and you and I both know it. Forget the rest of my bullshit; nobody’s gonna take a teen boy who’s on probation for attacking his foster parents.”

She didn’t have it in her to lie to his face and refute him. Short of an _Annie_ -style miracle, the best the kid could hope for was to stay out of trouble until he turned eighteen and his record got sealed.

He sighed. Jesus, the boy looked worn down. “And I’m tired of moving. I’m _really_ tired of moving, Ms. Rhee. Besides, I like Elliot and Jada and Lily and Madison, and they’re all still there.”

“Please,” he said when Rhee didn’t answer right away. “Look, Jada made me a card for Christmas.” He opened his backpack and carefully withdrew a sheet of pink construction paper covered in glitter glue and passed it over to her. “I know it’s signed by all of them, but you can tell Jada made it because she really likes pink and butterflies, and the other ones would have made a Christmas-themed card. Also the purple and silver glitter pens are for Jada only because they’re fatter and they’re easier for her to hold. Elliot gave it to MJ, and she gave it to me when I was in Crossroads.”

Rhee stared at the card, uneven globs of purple and silver glitter on flimsy construction paper. She honestly couldn’t tell that it was supposed to be a butterfly, but if that’s what Peter said it was, it probably was. And why was Peter’s friend in contact with his ex-foster siblings?

Rhee wanted to cry. She didn’t.

“You deserve better, kid,” she said, bone-tired.

He looked her in the eye. “So do you,” he said. “I’m sorry for putting you through all this shit.”

“That’s my job,” said Rhee. “To be put through all the shit. No apologies for trying to help someone, kid. New rule: just for you.”

“I’m not sorry about _that_ ,” said Peter. “Just all the other stuff.”

Rhee chuckled humorlessly. “Okay,” she said, finally. “As long as you’re sure, and the Fosters agree.”

“I’m sure.”

“And you can always come to me and tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

“Sure.”

Rhee hated this. She hated it so much. But there weren’t any better options. “I guess I’ll call the Fosters, then.”

“Yeah.” Peter kicked at his duffle.

“You know the drill, kid.” Rhee sent him a tired glance. “Out in the hall while I’m on the phone about arrangements.”

Peter sighed, but hoisted himself out of the chair and dragged his butt out the door.

Rhee took a breath, in and out, then dialed.

The Fosters, it turned out, were less than enthusiastic about Peter returning to their care once she’d explained the situation. “After he _assaulted_ the parents at his new home? And all the _whining_ we had to put up with after that boy left?” said Mrs. Foster. Rhee was about to hang up on her then and there when a knock sounded at her office door.

“One moment,” she said to the phone. “Who is it?”

Peter stuck his head in. “Can I talk to them?” he asked, “Explain why I want to go back?”

 _Are you sure?_ She mouthed at him.

He nodded, then gave her a ‘what can you do’ gesture.

Rhee sent a prayer up to the heavens. “Peter would like to talk to you,” she informed the phone, then thrust the receiver at him.

“Please don’t hang up,” he said into the receiver. “Trust me, this’ll be worth it.” Then, to Rhee: “Do you think I could have this conversation with my potential guardians _in private_?” Oh, and there was that teenage snotty-nosed sass. She’d almost thought the kid was too sweet and beat down to sour.

 _No_ , thought Rhee. _No, you cannot have a moment in private. Because there is very obviously something_ not-good _happening here._ But that was against policy, because the bond between guardian and child was sacrosanct and privacy was important or something, which Peter obviously knew because he was weaponizing it against her. She pointed two fingers to her eyes and then at him: _I’m watching you_.

She didn’t know what he said, but less than a minute after kicking her out of her own office, Peter called her back in, and the voice on the other side of the phone said, “The boy can return.”

Rhee didn’t like it. In fact, she hated it. But she had 34 other children to take care of and no better options for Peter, so she let it happen and dropped him off at their goddamn door.

She pulled over two blocks later, unable to focus on the road. It was over.

Oh God, it was over.

She hadn’t _stopped_ in two weeks. Hadn’t let herself think. Hadn’t let herself feel. But now it was over. _Fuck_.

For several long minutes, it was all she could do to shake in her seat and gasp out desperate breaths. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

She needed...she needed—, well, what she actually needed was for all her kids to have safe places they could call home. But she wasn’t going to get that. _I need a hug_ , was the next thought, shocking enough to snap her out of her spiraling thoughts.

 _Yeah, I need a motherfucking hug_. She pulled out her phone, stared at her contacts. Rhee didn’t have very many friends. No family, or none that she’d chosen to keep.

She scrolled down the options. Prathi was the obvious choice, but…

Rhee stared at her screen for several long moments before deciding, _ah,_ _fuck it_. She pressed a finger to the screen and waited for it to dial.

Three rings later, Marie Takahashi picked up. “Rhee?” she opened. “Is this still about Peter?”

“Yes and no,” said Rhee. “You wanna get a drink tonight?”

There was a pause on the other end. “Work commiseration? Or are you asking me on a date?”

Rhee blinked. She’d been thinking the former, but… “Both?” she said before she could chicken out, proud of how dry and even her tone was. Thank God Marie couldn’t see her face. Rhee was red as a sunburned beetroot, and she knew it. Oh sweet baby Jesus, this was so unprofessional. She should be fired on the spot. Was this sexual harassment? Oh shit, she was a goddamn social worker. She should know what fucking sexual harassment looked like. _Fuck_. Was she having a breakdown? Was this what it looked like when she finally snapped?

“Okay,” said Marie.

“I am so sorr-wait.” Rhee paused as Marie’s words caught up with her. “ _Okay_?” She sputtered. “Was that a yes?”

Marie laughed softly on the other side of the line. “Yes,” she said. “It was a yes. As long as you’re okay with me ranting and sobbing about justice and unfairness once I’m a few drinks in.”

“Okay,” said Rhee. “More than okay. I think I could really use that right now, honestly. Um, yeah. Awesome.”

“Awesome,” Marie echoed, and you could hear the sad smile in her voice. “When and where?”

Now that this was a _date_ date, Rhee suddenly felt a huge amount of pressure to pick the right place. “You’re in Astoria, right?” she asked, stalling for time.

Marie hummed confirmation.

Options flashed through her brain. She’d already said drinks, it needed to be somewhere they could talk, somewhere she could actually afford, not an Irish pub because fuck that would be uncomfortable for two queer ladies of color ranting about injustice, but it also couldn’t be a complete shithole of a dive. Hmm… “Sek’end Sun has a $10 burger and beer special on Tuesdays and they also do experimental cocktails?”

“Sounds like my kind of place. Second Sun, you said?” Marie paused for a moment, thinking. “Oh! Is that the one with the apostrophe in its name?”

“Bingo.”

“I’ve been meaning to try it out. 7:00?”

Rhee checked the time. It was 5:30 already, and she had to drive back to the office and fill out a shitton of paperwork before she clocked out, plus she needed a good fifteen minutes to freak out. “Could we make it 7:30?”

“Works for me. See you then.”

“See you then.” Rhee hung up and stared at her phone. _Oh my God. Oh my God_. _You’re going on a date, Rhee. An actual date_. Rhee didn’t date. The last time she’d dated, in the flirting and romantic sense, and not in the ‘meet someone at a bar for a hookup’ sense or the ‘God, I hope this person I met through an app for casual sex isn’t a serial killer, so we should probably meet in public before having a one night stand’ sense was…well, never. Rhee didn’t date.

Okay, freakout would have to come first, then driving, then paperwork. Then freakout about Peter during the date? That probably wasn’t great date etiquette, but it was why she’d wanted to talk to Marie in the first place…

She set a timer for fifteen minutes.

She scrolled through her contacts again, and dialed. “Hey, doc,” she said as soon as the other side picked up.

“Rhee,” came the flat reply. “Don’t waste my time with pleasantries.”

“I’m freaking out,” said Rhee.

“I can tell. Whatever you want, spit it out.”

“Can I ask you a favor? Two favors, actually.”

“What part of ‘spit it out’ don’t you understand?”

“Okay, okay. One, and I know this is a big ask: is there any way you could take a case? Just the one. I…” Rhee closed her eyes and sighed. “I’ve gotten attached, Prathi. And I’ve really fucking failed this kid. I… _fuck_ , I can’t. I can’t. He needs—he deserves more.”

“They all do, Rhee,” said the doctor, weary. “I’m retired.”

“I know,” said Rhee. She did know. She knew exactly how much she was asking. “I wouldn’t ask if I had any other options. I just… _please_. I need help. I think this one’s my Haylee.”

There was an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line. “Goddammit, Rhee. Haylee was supposed to be a cautionary tale. _Don’t_ do what I did.”

“I know,” said Rhee, miserable. “And I didn’t meant to get so invested, but…It’s gonna break me, Prathi, if we lose this kid. I can feel it in my bones. I don’t know if I can…” She shook her head, choked back the tears. “ _Fuck_.”

Prathima was silent for a long time. “What’s the second favor?” she asked

Rhee’d known Prathi long enough to know that silence meant she’d do it. “I have a date tonight and I have no idea what to do.” She paused. “Um, it may be with the kid’s lawyer. I think we’ve both gotten attached?”

“Jesus, Rhee, have I taught you _nothing_? Don’t mix business and pleasure. Jesus fucking Christ.” There was a pause and a heavy sigh. “Yes, all right, fine. What time is your date?”

Rhee grinned and wiped her cheeks. “Thanks, doc,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it. I’m going to start billing you for all this free therapy. And you didn’t answer my question.”

* * *

They were having dinner when Pepper got the call. Burgers and fries. Two weeks after that outburst in Talley’s office, and Harley was still plotting revenge on his “nemesis.” He was calling them “Tutu” now, because their anonymous ID number started two-two. He’d dragged Tony into it. They’d finally managed to fry the poor kid’s prototype with a high-voltage energy blast from the Iron Man repulsors. A _very_ high-voltage blast. The thing had stood up to a _bazooka,_ slightly singed but intact. And now both her boys were complaining about this mysterious “Tutu” and their pencil-y ways. Sure, Pepper or Tony could easily access the kid’s real name, but where would the fun in that be?

Pepper was pretty sure Tony wanted to hire the kid no matter what Harley ended up deciding for the contest, and _that_ was going to be a blowout for the ages. She could hear it now, Harley screaming that Tony had betrayed him for his worst enemy. And while his complaints _now_ were more joking, Pepper knew there’d be real hurt under there. Harley was smart, and a capable engineer, and Tony trusted him, but he wasn’t a super-genius and he wasn’t Tony’s flesh-and-blood. He was terrified of being abandoned again. So he overcompensated, using his brashness and melodramatic outbursts to cover up deep-rooted insecurities. They were so alike in that way, her two boys.

Pepper’s earphone pinged, the tone for her assistant Veronica, and she stepped away from the table to answer it.

“Pepper, do you really have to go?” Tony snagged her waist as she passed by.

She smiled, pleased, but then fixed Tony with an arch look. “Do _you_ want to go back to running your own company?”

Tony grumbled and made a face.

“Unless it’s an emergency, I’ll take the call and come right back.”

“Ugh, fine, fine. Go be a responsible adult.”

She stole a fry from his plate and popped it in her mouth as she walked away.

“Hey! You don’t even _like_ fries!” His protests followed her into the quiet of a spare room and took the call.

It was true that she didn’t like fries—too much salt—but there was something strangely satisfying about the crunch between her teeth.

“Talk to me, Veronica.”

“Hi Ms. Potts, sorry to bother you during dinner, but I’ve got the Commissioner for the NYPD on the line for you. He’s asking for a bulk rush-order of portable fiber-optic laser cutters and back-up from Iron Man under the provisionary Accords. I told him to call back during normal business hours, that Iron Man doesn’t work for Stark Industries, and that he’d need to contact the UN to get that process started, but he’s pretty insistent about speaking to you. We’ve currently got $650 million dollars in cumulative yearly contracts with the NYPD for non-weapons tech: computers, lab equipment, protective armor, communication devices, vehicles, restraints, cybersecurity, cameras, and he’s leaning pretty heavily on that relationship.”

Pepper frowned. “Did he give any indication of what he wanted to talk about?”

“No, but he claims it’s highly confidential and a matter of national security.”

“National security? From the NYPD? That’s a bit out of their realm, isn’t it?”

“That’s what you’d think,” said Veronica. “I wouldn’t normally interrupt you during family time, but…”

Pepper sighed. “No, no. You were right to bring this to me.” Over half a billion dollars a year was a _significant_ contract, and they needed to keep positive relationships with law enforcement for the Accords. “Patch him through.”

She gazed out the window over the city below and tried to rub away a headache. More and more recently, she felt sick and tired and bloated and _slow_. Probably all the stress catching up to her with the inconvenient addition of an early menopause.

She didn’t have the luxury of allowing it to slow her down.

The quality of the audio changed as the call switched over to the commissioner. “Finally! Pepper Potts?”

“Speaking.” She kept it terse.

“Is this line secure?”

“It is on my end.” Pepper tamped down any hint of irritation.

“Okay, okay. Listen, we knew this was gonna happen, letting vigilantes run wild around the city, but this? It’s a fucking bloodbath. It’s carnage. We need all hands on deck.”

Pepper frowned. “Back up, Commissioner. What’s happened?”

“ _Fucking_ vigilante. We’ve got six bodies pinned to him already, plus four dead cops who tried to take him down, good men, and two more in the hospital.”

Pepper breathed in. And out. _A vigilante,_ he’d said. _Please, don’t let it be Rogers_. She didn’t think Tony could take that. Luke Cage? No, he’d been building his reverse-criminal empire in Harlem, and he’d be too careful to let any bodies be tied directly to him. Daredevil, maybe? The man beat people into comas; she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d graduated to outright murder. Or was Deadpool back in the country? She wasn’t sure who would call the man a _vigilante_ , but…You would _think_ that a police official would be able to give a coherent and comprehensive report on _who_ , exactly, this apparently existential threat was.

The Commissioner was rambling on about the urgency of the situation. Pepper stopped waiting for a break and interrupted him. “ _Who_ , Commissioner? Who are you talking about?”

“Spider-Man. He’s gone rogue, and he needs to be put down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun…
> 
> Fun fact: originally, this fic was gonna alternate POVs between Peter, Rhee, Harley & Tony. But for some reason I couldn't get into Harley and Tony’s headspaces. So, that's why we get Pepper's POV! I’m actually really happy with this change and how it reads with the rest of the story, but it does mean that we don’t get to see Harley’s POV of meeting Peter, which makes me sad :(
> 
> **Some links on the NYPD budget, if you want them:**
> 
> [Why the NYPD costs $10 billion a year](https://www.businessinsider.com/the-real-cost-of-police-nypd-actually-10-billion-year-2020-8) (Including this fun quote from Michael Bloomberg: "I have my own army in the NYPD, which is the seventh biggest army in the world.")
> 
> [The N.Y.P.D. Spends $6 Billion a Year. Proposals to Defund It Want to Cut $1 Billion.](https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/06/20/nyregion/defund-police-nypd-budget.html)
> 
> [Nearly $1 Billion Is Shifted From Police in Budget That Pleases No One](https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/30/nyregion/nypd-budget.html)
> 
> [A Look Inside the New York City Police Department Budget](https://www.vera.org/downloads/publications/a-look-inside-the-new-york-city-police-department-budget.pdf)
> 
> [Seven Facts About the $11 Billion NYPD Budget](https://cbcny.org/research/seven-facts-about-nypd-budget)
> 
> Depending on the source and how you count it, the NYPD costs between $6 billion and $11 billion a year, and most of those costs go to personnel (wages, overtime). While the official NYPD budget is around $6 billion, an additional $5 billion in pensions/other benefits go to NYPD officers from the _city_ budget. I couldn't find great numbers, but it seems that the total amount spent on non-personnel expenses is about $672 million a year. I figure this is mainly equipment, and that it's somewhat reasonable that in a world with superheroes and villains, the equipment budget is a bit higher because they need all sorts of specialized equipment to hold enhanced people and/or mutants, and because more equipment gets destroyed in bad-guy villain attacks. (I know, I know, this world I've written has almost 0 actual *bad guys*--although we're gonna meet one soon!! any guesses as to who? I put a super lame pun/hint in this chapter--but it is still the MCU and/or general Spider-Man verse...there are SO MANY aliens/escaped experiments/mad scientists just running around and wreaking havoc, and that shit is EXPENSIVE).
> 
> It makes sense that Stark Industries, a reputable company based in New York that has experience with armor/tech stuff/weird alien stuff, handles a significant portion of the NYPD's equipment expenses, even if they aren't directly supplying weapons. I'm imagining that the total equipment budget is somewhere just over $1 billion/year, and SI supplies most of their non-weapons equipment. That's a lot of money, especially if it's a recurring and stable yearly contract. As CEO, Pepper can't afford to not take this call. We're gonna be getting *into it* soon with Stark Industries as a megacorporation that feeds off of and perpetuates systems of inequality, even if it's not directly dealing in *weapons* anymore. I'm so excited!! Yummy yummy capitalism.


	25. II-8. Begin Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man returns to the streets. MJ pays Peter a visit. Prathima starts therapy sessions with her new client. Peter meets a dog!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Updating again in quick succession because I had this chapter basically written and don’t see the point in holding off on publishing. Have been squeeing to myself about all the comments (and 100+ bookmarks!! 10,000+ hits!! Getting close to 500 kudos!!), and will respond to all y'all eventually. Things will once again likely slow down again soon, but who knows. I am using writing this a bit like therapy, so the next update might be sooner than I think. 
> 
> I have been asked to refresh y’all on the state of the spider-suit in this AU, which is 100% totally legitimate because honestly I don’t think I described it very well (or maybe at all?) in the first place. So, Peter’s suit is homemade out of repurposed thrift-store clothes. He sews it himself (originally with help from May). The mask is a red balaklava with black lines hand-sewn in for the Aesthetic(tm). He also has goggles, which are modified swimming goggles that he and Ned made to help him focus/block out extraneous information, and earplugs (same). He wears gloves and slightly reinforced socks (but no shoes) so that he can still stick to stuff through the fabric. He has his webshooters and webfluid, both of which he makes himself. Under the New Spider-Man Protocols developed by Ned and MJ (established in Chapter 5, Spider-Man Returns), he also has to have a bluetooth headset connected to his phone when he’s out patrolling so that he can call for help. And that’s it! No Karen, no other tech, nothing fancy. He is planning on trying to make a new suit out of his bullet-proof material that has a voice modulator and more pockets for snacks, but hasn’t had a chance to do that yet.
> 
> Once again (wow, two chapters in a row!), I don’t think there are any TWs for this chapter (maybe one for a brief mention of child abuse/neglect through withholding food?), but as always, let me know if there’s anything you think should be tagged!

“Whoo!!” Peter swooped down from the rooftops, hollering his lungs out, weightless and unrestrained in the night sky. Just as he was about to hit the asphalt, he sent a web flying to the next building and swung back up, falling and flying and free.

He laughed as the cold air hit his face through the mask, sharp and bracing. His stomach flipped as he somersaulted in the sky, and he broke out into giddy giggles. It had been four days since Peter was let out of jail, Spider-Man was back, and he was free.

He was _free_.

He stumbled to a stop on the roof of a building a few blocks away from the Fosters’ place, panting and grinning. It had been a good first patrol back: he’d given three people directions, used his webs to fish an engagement ring out of the sewer grate, and helped a lost little girl find her father. He grabbed his stashed backpack and hopped up behind the large rooftop AC unit to quickly strip out of his spider-suit and change back into normal clothes.

He breathed quickly, cursing the cold, as he stripped and re-dressed in bulky sweats as quickly as humanly possible. Spider-ly possible? Even the biting January cold that had permeated his clothes couldn’t bring him down. He was out, and he was Spider-Man, and he was free.

Peter made his way down the fire escape and over to the Foster’s building, where he took the elevator to the twelfth floor and silently let himself in. It was just past midnight, and while _technically_ Peter had a 7:00pm curfew as a condition of his probation, he was also paying the Fosters $350 a month in bribe money for them to let him stay there, leave him alone, and give good reports to his probation officer, so Peter wasn’t too worried about sneaking in and out.

He’d been able to keep his job at the diner, and switched around his shifts so that he worked from 7:00am—4:00pm on Saturdays and Sunday, with a lunch break in there somewhere. That was the most he was legally allowed to work, and it had to be legal work to count for his probation deal-thing. He’d also taken a job off the books unloading trucks into a grocery store in the early mornings, because he was required to spend his afternoons with Skip in the alternative-to-detention mentorship thing. So he was keeping afloat. Barely. He’d also promised the Fosters that he wouldn’t cost them any money besides the basic heat, electricity, and hot water that came from living in a place, so Peter was on his own for food, school supplies, clothes, phone, HRT, all that. Plus the kids’ stuff. But he’d worked out a budget, and it was doable. It was almost like he was supporting himself entirely and paying $350 a month for rent, which was _way_ below market rate. So that was a plus.

He went to the room he shared with Elliot and Lily, and ducked under his bed. Technically, it was supposed to be the boys’ room, but Lily always ended up crawling into bed with her brother, so it counted as her room too. Neither kid was there at the moment, so they must be awake and hanging out in the other bedroom.

Under the bed, pushed up against the wall, was the mini-fridge that had been Peter’s first dumpster-diving project after getting released. The Fosters still kept a lock on their fridge, so unless he wanted to only eat shelf-stable stuff, dumpster fridge it was. He fished out the large container of roasted potatoes he’d made last night and a thing of ketchup. The ketchup he left out on the floor, and he brought the potatoes into the kitchen to microwave them, careful to stop the microwave before the timer went off. The Fosters may not care what he did, but they’d be annoyed if he woke them up.

As he waited for the microwave, he felt some of the ecstatic joy he’d felt earlier fade away. His fingers and toes tingled uncomfortably with warmth after being cold for so long outside, and he stifled a yawn. He was tired.

But the night wasn’t over yet.

On his way back to his room, he knocked softly at the door of the girls’ room to let the kids know he was back and they could come eat if they were hungry.

A few minutes later, the soft patter of feet came into his room. Lily came first, of course, and practically threw herself into Peter’s lap. Then Jada, who snuggled into his side. Finally came Elliot and… _MJ? What?_

“MJ?” Peter’s voice cracked.

“‘Sup, loser.” She sat down cross-legged across from him and helped herself to some potatoes.

“…What are you doing here?”

“I’ve probably spent more nights in this place than you have at this point, Parker.”

Peter winced.

MJ rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that, so stop freaking out and blaming yourself for things outside of your control.”

Peter flushed, but didn’t respond. “No Madison?” He asked instead.

“She’s still mad at you for leaving,” said Elliot, through a mouthful of potatoes.

“Okay,” Peter sighed. He tried to push down the wave of panic and guilt that came from his friend’s appearance. “Could you take in a plate for her? I don’t want her to go hungry just because she’s mad at me.”

Elliot nodded and started to prepare a plateful.

“Actually, little dude…” MJ snagged Elliot’s wrist. “And little dudettes.” She nodded at the girls in Peter’s lap. “Could you all go bring the potatoes to Madison? I gotta talk to jailbird here about grown-up stuff. Very boring, but also kinda private.”

Lily shrugged and got up, pulling Jada with her. She latched onto MJ’s side and squeezed. “By-bye, Ms. MJ.” She pet MJ’s face for some reason as part of the goodbye ritual. Then Jada got in on the hug too, and MJ was sandwiched between two very clingy children.

MJ sat there awkwardly and let herself be manhandled. “Um, yeah. Good hugs.” She pat them on the head until they let her go and walked down the hallway.

Elliot studied both Peter and MJ’s faces carefully before he too, slipped silently out of the room.

“Probably a good thing Madison wasn’t here,” Peter joked. “She never would’ve let us out of her sight.”

“She’s appropriately suspicious of all authority figures,” MJ agreed. She flicked her eyes to the window, and the fire escape beyond. “Shall we? Away from suspicious little ears?”

Peter sighed and followed her out.

They sat on the fire escape, letting their legs dangle and breath frost up the night.

“You haven’t picked up your phone.” MJ broke the silence.

“Um, yeah.” Peter winced. “It kind of didn’t survive my encounter with the police. You know, when they arrested me.”

“Oh,” said MJ. “Okay. You need to get a new one. So we can talk to you.”

Peter grimaced. “It might take a while. I can probably scrounge up parts from a dumpster, but when it comes to actually paying for a SIM and a plan…I need to save up a bit.”

MJ narrowed her eyes, but nodded. “Okay. Ned and I can spot you, between the two of us, if you want.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Ned wants to talk to you, and _I_ want to stop listening to Ned moan about not being able to talk to you. Besides, you can’t go on patrol unless we have a way to keep in touch with you.”

“What? That’s not—!”

“New Spider-Man Protocols, remember? A.K.A. Operation Peter is Not Allowed to Cut His Friends Out of His Life? Ring any bells? It’s still in place, dumbass, even if you had to transfer schools.”

Peter’s eyes stung from the cold. “I don’t know, MJ. It’s not really safe, and—”

“Peter. You’re an idiot. The New Spider-Man Protocols are still in effect, and you _will_ be following them and you _will_ ask for help you need it.”

Something warm blossomed in Peter’s chest. “Is that a threat?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He felt a blush spread across his cheeks.

“And you need to talk to Ned.” MJ frowned, thinking about it. “It’ll be harder without a phone, to coordinate behind his mom’s back. But you two can figure it out. You’re budding geniuses or whatever.”

A sickening ribbon of guilt coiled in his stomach, Mrs. Leeds’ words still clear in his mind. “I don’t want to get Ned hurt, or in trouble, or—”

“You’d be hurting him a lot more if you stop speaking to him right after his dad died. That’s a _really_ dick move, Parker.”

“Harsh.”

She shrugged. “I speak the truth.”

Peter stared over the street, mostly dark now, but with a few still-bright windows scattered through the shadows.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

* * *

Peter started school again that Monday. Switching schools was probably the worst thing in Peter’s new, post-jail life. Everything else was actually…pretty good? And okay, yeah, he’d expected that he would have to do it, but it still really sucked. He was enrolled in Unity Center for Urban Technologies, or M500, a local public high school which was actually pretty close to the Fosters’ place in Murray Hill. It was…fine. It wasn’t a _bad_ school, exactly, but he’d been at one of the best private schools in the city, and this was, well, _not_. It shared a building with two other schools, and it only offered four AP classes, all of which he’d already taken, and he missed seeing Ned and MJ every day. But he got free lunch and breakfast at school, which helped. It wasn’t nearly enough to quash his spider-mutant hunger, but it helped.

And if not being challenged in school was his biggest problem, well…Peter could handle that. Hell, Peter was thrilled that that was the worst he _had_ to handle. And everything else was good. More than good. He had Ned and MJ, he had the kids, and he had Spider-Man. He was free.

Even his alternative-to-detention program wasn’t terrible. A little boring, sure, but not _bad_. He had to go hang out with Skip after class or work every day until 7pm every day when he “went home for dinner with the Fosters”, which meant he couldn’t Spider-Man in the afternoon or early evening. But his nights were basically free for Spider-Man, and for talking with Ned and MJ. Ned hacked into the probation officer’s schedule, so Peter didn’t even have to worry about missing any “surprise” visits.

And Skip wasn’t so bad. Peter actually kind of liked him. He was decently smart and he didn’t lie to Peter or coddle him just to make him feel better. That was why Peter had gone along with Skip being his ATD supervisor. Like with the Fosters: better the devil you knew. And Peter knew Skip, knew that Skip was just trying to look out for him, even if Skip’s main advice up to this point had been “stay under the radar and don’t cause trouble.” It wasn’t even _bad_ advice, really, just not advice Peter had been able to follow.

Skip hadn’t even said “told you so” after Peter returned, fresh with a bunch of probation conditions.

Instead, he sighed and laid a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Sorry, Einstein,” he said. “Sounds like you got a rough deal.”

Peter shrugged off his hand. “You tried to warn me,” he muttered, embarrassed, “that doing something would just make it worse.”

Skip sighed. “Yeah, but that didn’t mean that I wanted to be _right_. Maybe it coulda been different for you, you know? You seem to like your worker, and I thought maybe, if you told her…” he trailed off.

Guilt roiled in Peter’s gut. If he’d just called Ms. Rhee earlier… But no, it hadn’t been an emergency until suddenly it _was_ , and Ms. Rhee hadn’t been able to do anything for him in the end anyway. Skip was right. You make a fuss, it gets worse. You go to the system, they lock you up.It had happened to Marco, it had happened to Za— _Yomi_ , it had happened to Peter. Peter should’ve dealt with it himself. Or as Spider-Man. But it was too late for that.

“Yeah, well, obviously it didn’t work out,” Peter snapped.

“Hey, hey,” Skip raised his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t mean to push any buttons. C’mon, you wanna help me run some titrations?” He steered Peter over to a workbench.

And if he watched Peter like a hawk during their afternoon sessions, always made sure Peter wasn’t left alone, stood a sentry over his shoulder? That was his _job_ , and it wasn’t like he was hurting Peter, and Peter couldn’t risk the delicate truce they had by pushing Skip away. Honestly, it was fine. He got to hang out in a college campus lab and do science. Sometimes, it was even fun.

So things were looking up. He was tired, his senses were still a bit oversensitive, and he wasn’t exactly _happy_ , but…things were getting better, and maybe one day they could be good.

* * *

The thing Peter was most worried about in his new, post-probation life—besides switching schools, which was so far anticlimactic—was that he’d been assigned a new therapist. Mandatory sessions, twice a week to start out. She was way up in Harlem, which was a pain, but at least the state paid for his MetroCard.

His first session was on a Tuesday afternoon a week after he’d gotten out—he had permission to skip his ATD with Skip for therapy purposes—and he jogged off the six-train with a slight bit of apprehension and more than a bit of resentment. The place, when he got there, looked like someone’s home where they actually lived: a well-cared-for red brick townhouse with an obvious living-room set-up visible through large paneled windows. He checked the address on his phone, which he’d cannibalized into a working creation from dumpster parts, and yep, this was the place.

Hesitant, he pressed the doorbell. There was some movement inside, and then an older Indian lady answered the door. She was wearing a gray business suit and stockings, but no shoes. Behind her, he could see leafy green plants and a hallway leading to a kitchen. Definitely someone’s house.

“Uh, sorry,” he began. “I think I have the wrong—”

“Mr. Parker?” asked the woman, surveying him.

“Yeah.” Peter blinked, and tried not to shy back. Her gaze was _sharp_ , and Peter had a feeling she was the type of old lady who could turn him inside out and shake out all his secrets without breaking a sweat.

“Prathima Vishwakarma. Come in.”

Shit, okay. That _was_ his new therapist’s name; he was in the right place. But she was terrifying. This was not good. She would probably have his secret identity out of him within the week.

She opened the door wider and ushered him in. “Shoes on the rack. This is a no-shoe household.”

There was nothing he could do but comply. “Yes, ma’am.” Peter followed the order and toed out of his shoes, very confused. He was wearing Star Wars socks with little Millenium Falcons on them and a hole in the toe. He tried to surreptitiously move the fabric around to hide the hole. “Um, this _is_ , uh…” He trailed off, feeling foolish.

Dr. Vishwakarma turned slightly to look over her shoulder at him. “Therapy?” she finished the question for him.

“Yeah.” Peter blushed.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “What else would it be?”

“I dunno,” said Peter. “It’s just…is this your _house_?”

“It is. I sold my office space a few years ago, now, but I have a home office for sessions here. If you don’t feel comfortable with that, we could arrange to meet in a more neutral location in the future. I assure you that the setting will not impact my professionalism in any way, and that your confidentiality will be strictly kept. I’ve kicked my wife out for the afternoon, and she won’t be back until well after you’ve departed.”

Peter felt something loosen in his chest. “Your _wife_?” he asked, quiet, almost daring to hope.

“Mm.” She gave him the smallest of nods, and Peter swallowed. She _got_ it. Like with Ms. Rhee. “She’s an author, out people-watching. For ‘inspiration.’” The doctor rolled her eyes, but there was fondness there. “Are we good to go the office, our would you prefer to postpone this session until we can find another place to meet?”

“Office is fine.” Peter ducked his head.

She nodded and continued leading him down the hall. “What’s your opinion on dogs?” she asked without turning around.

“Dogs?” Peter echoed, sure he’d misheard her.

“Mm-hm. Greyhounds, specifically. She’s very friendly.”

Peter perked up. “You have a dog?! What’s her name? What’s she like? Can I meet her?”

The doctor chuckled, and then an ear-piercing whistle split the air. Peter winced, but quickly bounced back. He got to meet a dog!

A blue-gray greyhound scrambled down the stairs. She was beautiful, but obviously getting on in years and her left eye was missing. She went right up to the doctor and twined herself around the doctor’s legs.

The doctor smiled and scratched her head. “Violet, this is Peter,” she said. “And Peter, this is Violet. She’s a rescue, but she’s very sweet. Very cuddly. If you’d like her to sit in on our sessions—”

“Yes,” Peter interrupted before she could even finish her question. He knelt down, grinning. “Hi, girl. Hi, Violet. You’re beautiful, aren’t you? I bet you’re a very good girl.”

Violet _was_ a very good girl. She liked belly scritches and head scritches and lots and lots of cuddles. Peter was in love. If therapy meant he got to hang out with Violet, then it might even be worth it to suffer through the actual therapy part.

Except…the actual therapy part wasn’t even that bad. Despite his fears, Dr. Vishwakarma didn’t push. She didn’t ask him to talk about the Caldwells, or about May, or Ben, or his parents, or his trans-ness, or juvie, or probation, or anything he didn’t want to talk about. Instead, after fifteen minutes of introducing herself and setting ground rules, they talked about current events. What he was reading in school. Normal things, safe things.

His project for the Stark competition. “I got an invite for an interview!” he told her. It wasn’t until the very end of January, but he was thrilled. “They actually want to interview me! And talk about my project! For real!” It had been worth it. It had all been worth it. He had an interview at _Stark Industries._

After about forty minutes or so, Peter started getting antsy. This first session was scheduled to last _an hour and a half_ , and even if it wasn’t horrible, Peter was still exhausted and wanted out.

Somehow, the doctor seemed to sense this. “I think Violet’s getting a bit restless. I know it’s cold out, but how would you feel about a brief excursion to St. Nicholas P-A-R-K?”

Peter perked up. “The park?” he asked.

Violet also immediately perked up at that.

Dr. Vishwakarma suppressed a smile. “Well, yes. I was spelling it out so as to not get her needlessly excited, but if you’re willing…?”

“Yes!” Peter grinned. “Yesyesyesyesyesyesyes. The park! With a dog! This is _very_ exciting, Dr. V, and Violet _should_ be excited.” He turned to the dog. “Shouldn’t you, Lil’ V? Yeah, that’s you. I figure your mama is Big V, and then that makes you Lil’ V, right? Yeah! This isn’t needless excitement, is it, girl? No? It’s just the right amount of excitement? Uh-huh, that’s what I thought.” He continued a stream of meaningless happy babble at the greyhound.

She whuffed and wiggled in return, obviously getting hyped.

Peter hopped up, and Dr. Vishwakarma followed at a more sedate pace. “Do you have a hat, scarf, gloves? You’re more than welcome to borrow any from the bin by the front, and if you wish, you can leave your backpack here, and it will be safe upon our return.”

“Uh…” Peter hesitated. He had his suit in his backpack, which had gloves and a balaklava as _part_ of it, and he’d just been going out in uniform whenever he needed to keep warm. But he couldn’t very well pull out his spider-suit here. And he _wasn’t_ letting his backpack out of his sight. “I’m good,” he said. He swung his bag over his shoulder, pulled up the hood on his hoodie, and stuck his hands in his pockets.

Dr. Vishwakarma eyed his get-up, but didn’t second-guess him until they got to the door, where she tossed him a scarf as she pulled on her snowboots. “For my own peace of mind. Carry it if you don’t want to wear it.”

Peter caught it on instinct, and _oh_ , _that was_ soft. It _felt_ expensive. “Really, it’s fine—” he began, but Dr. V was already out the door, clipping on Violet’s leash as she went, and Peter felt more awkward about trying to give it back than he did about keeping it. He wrapped it around his neck and bottom half of his face, and _wow_ , that was nice. He snuggled a bit down into the scarf. It smelled faintly of sandalwood.

The park was only a block away, and they stationed themselves near an entrance to play fetch. Dr. V gave Peter the ball, and he enjoyed sending it across the green they were standing in for Violet to trample after in the snow. He was careful not to use too much of his strength, but it was still nice to get some of the energy out. And Violet obviously appreciated the workout.

“You’re good with her,” Dr. V noted, as Violet came bounding back through the snow. “Did you have any pets growing up?”

“Nah, my asthma was too bad when I was a kid.” He took the ball from Violet and chucked it across the field. “But I used to be a dogwalker for the Ruizes, upstairs. They had a pitbull called Rosie and a boxer mix called Romeo, and they were the _best_. It was my first job; I was like, eleven? Yeah, like ten, eleven. They paid me five bucks to play with their dogs for an hour after school every day. Which was great. I was fine as long as we were outside and I had my inhaler, and everyone says pitbulls are scary, but those two were just absolute sweethearts and I’d take them out for a walk and play fetch every day so I could save up money to get Ben a camera for Christmas. He always loved photography, but his old camera—the lens got smashed, and they weren’t making replacements anymore. So I saved up and I got him a new camera, and it was just the best! And he taught me how to do, like, framing and editing stuff, and—”

Peter stopped speaking. He stared at Violet, who was play fighting a snowbank and losing. He hadn’t thought about that stupid camera in ages, hadn’t thought about Ben with anything other than pain in…five months, at least. Since May had died. Suddenly, the cold, which he’d been contentedly ignoring in favor of playing fetch, seemed to bite deeper into his skin.

He shoved his hands back into his pockets, burrowed deeper into the borrowed scarf. “It was good, I guess,” he finished lamely.

“It sounds like a very good memory,” said Dr. V, blandly. “Do you still take pictures?”

Peter froze. He suddenly had too many emotions to do anything with. _Fuck_. He had no idea how this therapist had suddenly gotten him talking about Ben, talking about things that were better left buried, talking about things he _couldn’t_ talk about.

Luckily, Violet came and rescued him, dropping a saliva-soaked tennis ball at his feet. He knelt down, picked up the cold, slimy thing with a hand tucked into the sleeve of his sweatshirt for protection. He ran his other hand over Violet’s head, slower than he had been. “Good girl,” he whispered.

“So, have you been engaging in any photography recently?” the doctor pressed.

Peter’s mouth twisted. “Don’t have the stupid camera anymore.” He hurled the ball away from his body. It cut through the air much faster and farther than it should have. Peter flinched. “It’s probably in the storage locker, with the other stuff,” he quickly added, hoping to draw the doctor’s attention away from his superhuman throw.

“The storage locker?” she asked, voice gently curious and gaze seemingly unsuspicious.

Peter felt a tiny bit of tension release from his shoulders. Maybe she hadn’t noticed. But now he had to talk about _that_. He shrugged, shifted. “It’s where the stuff is. You know, where they put the stuff.” _Our stuff_. “The stuff that was in the apartment.” _The stuff that made up our home_.

“Have you ever thought about taking it up again? I’m sure Rhee would be more than happy to get you into the storage locker to pick up anything you would like to have with you. Or perhaps even using your phone? The quality of those phone cameras are getting pretty amazing, now.”

Wordlessly, Peter dug his phone out of his pocket and cracked the case open to show her the inside. “Had to get rid of the camera mechanics to retrofit the battery and re-wire the SoC connections.” He pointed to what he was talking about. He could have done it better so that the camera still functioned, but that would have required finding more parts, and he’d been anxious to get a phone up and running.

“You built your phone yourself?”

“I mean, I didn’t _build_ it so much as I fished out a bunch of broken phones from the dumpster behind the Best Buy on 5th Avenue that all had different parts that were broken and kinda smooshed the working bits together into a cannibalized Frankenstein phone. Works, though.”

“Impressive.” The doctor picked up the ball from Violet this time, hooked her back up to the leash. “Let’s get you back inside before you freeze to death.”

Ostensibly, she was speaking to the dog, who whined and gave her a piteous glance. Peter kind of wanted to do the same. He didn’t want to go back to being stuck in a room with this lady.

She smiled at her dog and scratched behind her ears. “We’ll come back out again later, okay, girl? But it’s too cold to stay out for long right now.”

It was a perfectly fine temperature to stay out for a while if you were dressed for it, only a bit below freezing, but Peter wasn’t dressed for it. Dr. Vishwakarma was, though, in a heavy parka and snowboots. She looked positively toasty. Peter blushed and sunk into himself, resentful but also a bit grateful. They’d only been out for ten minutes or so, but already Peter’s fingers were numb and unfeeling in the bite of the wind and his sneakers were soaked through with dirty slush.

As they walked back, Dr. V kept up the conversation. “I only asked about your photography because it seems like you’re a very creative person, and it’s always nice to have an outlet for that kind of stuff.”

Peter frowned. “I’m a _science_ person,” he said, a bit offended.

She shrugged. “And those things are mutually exclusive?”

“Well, I guess not, but I’m not really good at, like, art stuff.”

“Hmm. I would say that phone you just showed me is a pretty impressive work of art.”

“That’s not art. That’s…” Peter tried to think of the word. “Engineering.”

“Engineering,” the doctor echoed, sounding thoughtful. She had to be humoring him, but Peter couldn’t hear any judgment in her voice. “Then what would you call the fabric you were telling me earlier, the one you created for the Stark competition? Spinning, knålbinding, shaping the cloth: that’s classic fiber arts right there. Key word: _art_.”

“Still engineering,” said Peter.

“Okay.” She accepted that with an easy shrug. “What’s the difference,” she asked, “between art and engineering?” She sounded genuinely curious.

Peter was still suspicious. “I dunno.” He dug his hands deeper into his pockets and didn’t say anything else.

Dr. Vishwakarma waited in expectant silence all the way back to her office-house and through the process of shedding their outer layers.

“Would you like a hot drink to warm up after that? We’ve got coffee, tea, and hot chocolate.”

Peter stopped the process of toeing off his shoes to look at her, genuinely surprised. Was that…a thing that therapists did?

“I’ll be having a hot chocolate. It just needs heating up, and it’s no problem to whip up another cup.”

Peter felt his face going red. “Uh, yeah, okay,” he stuttered out. “Hot chocolate, thank you.” He nodded and ducked his head, focused again on his shoes.

The doctor nodded, already moving. “I’ll be in the kitchen. You’re welcome to come, or wait in the office. It’ll be about five minutes to heat everything up.”

Peter’s socks were soaked through, and he winced with each step as he felt his feet squish into the plush carpet. He might as well have left his shoes on. And this house was so _nice_. Perfectly curated. Expensive furnishings, clean. He shouldn’t be ruining it just by walking into it with his worn-through socks and fraying sweats.

Still, there was nothing else he could do. He passed by the entrance to the kitchen and kind-of…awkwardly stood there. Dr. Vishwakarma was stirring a pot of something—presumably hot chocolate—and Violet had disappeared somewhere. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

The doctor looked over her shoulder from where she stood stirring at the stove. “Thank you,” she said. “Two mugs, cabinet over the sink.” She jerked her head at the cabinet she meant. It was necessary, because there were _two_ sinks in the kitchen. What kind of people had _two sinks_? What did you even need two sinks _for_?

He fetched the mugs and set them down on the counter next to her.

“So,” she said, stirring the hot chocolate. “Art and engineering: what’s the difference?”

“Um…art is about, um, feelings?” Peter tried. “And engineering isn’t?”

“You wouldn’t say that there’s emotion that goes into designing things?”

Peter thought of his web-shooters, how carefully he’d tinkered with them to get them just right, his suit, hand-stitched from thrift-store cast offs, each new iteration tailored slightly better to fit his spidery needs. He thought about the Stark project, and how he’d basically poured his heart and soul into that thing because he hadn’t had anywhere else to put them. Those were all definitely engineering, but also…there were definitely feelings there. He chewed his lip. “Emotion can go into it, sure, but…it’s not the point of it? Like, engineering has a purpose. An end product.”

“And art doesn’t?” she pressed.

“Not in the same way,” said Peter. “It’s not _functional_. That’s the key to engineering, is it has to have some kind of function.”

“So if something is functional, it can’t also be art?”

“Well…no, that’s not right either,” said Peter, thinking about it. “Like, I guess you could say, _some_ things that are engineering are also art. Like, umm…” He tried to think of a good example. Some piece of technology that was definitely also art. His mind was suddenly blank of all science he’d ever learned ever. _Come on, Parker, just name a tech thing._ _Any tech thing_. “The arc reactor,” he blurted out.

 _The arc reactor? Really? How is_ that _art? It’s a battery. Batteries aren’t art. Also, you need to get over your obsession with Tony Stark. Even if you got an interview, you’re not going to get anything from the Stark competition, and Spider-Man’s not going to ever be pals with Iron Man. Get over yourself, Parker._

But Peter was thinking about it now, the art question, and…the arc reactor kind of _was_ art. He’d seen the large display arc reactor at the entrance to SI. It was beautiful. And it had made him feel things. Things like…awe, and wonder. And hope. That meant it was art, right? That’s what art was? And it was on display for people. People were meant to see it. That was probably also part of what art was? The Iron Man thing, though…yeah, he needed to stop getting his hopes up. It was just going to hurt more when things inevitably got worse.

Peter tried to corral his thoughts into words, pushing down the feelings of undeservingness. He _definitely_ didn’t want to talk about that. Art. Arc reactor. Okay. “It’s a power source, yes, but it’s also this really, really impressive piece of design that’s, just, really beautiful? Like, not only visually, but also for the genius of it? The way it’s so powerful and advanced, but also the simplicity of it, I guess? Like, the forces involved are some of the most powerful forces in nature. It’s like bringing a miniaturized _star_ to earth. So it kind of reflects nature, but also kind of puts its own spin on it? Ha, spin! Because the particles are…yeah, anyway…because it’s basically using magnetic fields to basically energize particles into nuclear fusion. Which is so simple, but also so _huge_. It really is almost creating a star. Except you’re just spinning it up from materials that are already here! Which shouldn’t be possible, on so many levels, but somehow it _is_ , and the fact that Tony Stark made it into something useful in a _cave_ , from a really dark place, and it just was light and power, and then he used it to try and do _good_ , and create clean energy and save us all from aliens, even though it came from a not good place, and then brings that light and shows it to everybody…yeah. I think that’s maybe art? I’m not sure.”

Dr. V was nodding along at his explanation as she ladled the hot chocolate into the mugs and passed one to him. “I’ve never thought of it like that before. It’s a beautiful way of putting it.”

Peter flushed as he followed her back to the office. “It’s not, really. You want MJ for the poetry stuff and saying things that are profound or whatever.”

Violet was curled up in a dog bed in the corner of the office. She looked up as the two of them entered, then settled back down into her nap.

“I think you’re selling yourself short, Peter. I thought that was an incredibly poetic way of seeing the world. That’s all poetry is, really, is looking at the world through a certain lens and using words to express that. Some might say that’s what all art is.”

“Huh.” Peter masked his embarrassment by settling down onto the couch and burying his face in his mug. “Oh, wow, this is really good!” He wiped off the hot chocolate mustache he knew he had with the back of his sleeve, even though he knew that was gross and he was in a fancy place and he really shouldn’t do that.

Dr. V inclined her head and smiled, apparently unbothered by his horrible manners. “Thank you. Lots of practice.” She paused, thinking. “So, if the arc reactor can be art, why can’t the things you make also be art? The phone, the fabric, all that. It requires a huge amount of ingenuity and creativity to make those things.”

Peter looked at her like she was crazy. “I’m not Tony Stark.”

“I wasn’t aware that you had to be Iron Man in order to be an artist.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “ _Obviously_ , that wasn’t what I was saying.” Then he winced. That was really rude. _Shit_. He was going to be in so much trouble; he’d snapped at his therapist and now they were going to say he wasn’t cooperating with the court-mandated therapy, and then they were going to send him back to jail, and he’d be caught and sent to the Raft, and he shouldn’t have done that, he really shouldn’t have done that, he shouldn’t have—

“What _were_ you saying, then?” Dr. V had a hint of a smile playing around her mouth, and her tone was still light, curious, oblivious to Peter’s growing panic.

Peter’s rapidly spiraling breaths stuttered and smoothed out, and for a moment, it was all he could do to pant on the couch. Feel the soft fabric of his sweatpants between his fingers, the smell of sandalwood from the scarf he was still wearing, the strap of his backpack through his sock. She wasn’t mad, she wasn’t mad, everything was going to be okay. He was fine. He was _fine_. He let out a long breath. “I’m just…not an art person,” he muttered, trying to cling on to the thread of the conversation.

“Okay.” The doctor seemed content to let that lie. “But you do _create_ things?”

Peter swallowed. “Ye—yeah.”

She nodded. “Homework assignment for you, Peter.” She saw the look on his face, and grinned. “Yes, you have therapy homework. I promise it won’t be too awful. I want you, before our next session, to work on creating something. Could be big, could be small, could be a part of a larger project. A tech thing, coding, cooking, a paper airplane, a photo, a journal entry, a piece of cloth. It doesn’t matter what it is, it doesn’t need to be perfect, and it doesn’t need to be done. Just spend some time, let’s say at least half an hour, working on creating something. And while you do that, I want you to think about the process of creating, what it feels like, what it means to you. Think you can do that?”

“Uh…yeah, I guess.” He ran a hand through his hair. He wasn’t really sure how that was supposed to help, but…fine. Yeah, he could do that.

“Great.” She clapped her hands, not loudly, but with a sense of finality. “We’ve got about fifteen minutes left. Unless you have something you want to bring up…” She left a pause for Peter to speak.

He shook his head. _Nope. No way was he willingly going to bring anything up_.

She nodded and continued, “Then let’s talk about grounding exercises. Just now, you pulled yourself out of an anxiety spiral using... _touch_ , I think? Was that something you learned from a previous therapist, or did you figure that out on your own?”

Peter stared at her. She’d _noticed_ that? The anxiety and weird breathing, sure, she definitely would have noticed _that_ , but how did she figure out he was touching things to calm down? He’d barely even _shifted_. No one had _ever_ noticed him doing that stuff to calm himself down. And if she’d noticed that, what _else_ had she noticed? Oh no, this was bad. This was badbadbad. This was very very not good. He couldn’t do this. There was no way he’d be able to sit here for an hour, twice a week, and not completely break. Oh no. Not good.

“Peter.” Her voice was calm, and somber. “It’s okay. You are safe here, and I’m sorry if I said something that made you anxious. That was not my intention, but sometimes even therapists mess up, and I will do my best not to do it in the future. Can you breathe with me? Let’s count: In, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven…”

He could feel Violet’s head against his thigh, soft and warm and breathing steadily. A comforting weight. Slowly, shaking, he got his breathing under control. He wiped his cheeks with his sleeves and slumped forward.

“Sorry,” he said, once he’d calmed down, “that was stupid. That was…there was nothing even _happening_ , and— _ugh_!”

“Nothing to apologize for,” said Dr. Vishwakarma. “And not stupid. I promise you, this is not stupid at all. This kind of thing? Happens to so many people, especially people who’ve gone through a tough time, and that’s part of why we’re here. To figure out what the best way of dealing with these kinds of things for _you_ , okay?”

Peter nodded, not making eye contact, and sunk into the couch.

“Okay. Do you have any idea what set it off that time, so that I can try and avoid unintentionally triggering you in the future? It’s okay if you don’t know, or if you aren’t ready to share.”

 _You’re too observant and I’m terrified you’ll find out all my secrets and what little bit of life I have left will be ruined_. Well, he couldn’t say _that_. He just crossed his arms across his body and shook his head. _No, I don’t know_ , or _no, I don’t want to share_ , he didn’t really care how she took it.

“Okay. I know I said this at the start of the session, but it bears repeating now. If you ever need a break, if you ever want to stop, if you need to just be quiet for a bit, that’s okay. Just let me know. Okay?”

He nodded tightly, fingers tangling into Violet’s short fur.

“Do you need a break now?”

He shook his head.

“Okay. So: grounding exercises…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …Can you tell that I *really* want a kitchen with two sinks? And a dishwasher! …sigh…
> 
> **The Therapy**
> 
> Okay, so: on Prathi’s therapy. Obviously, this isn’t a typical patient-therapist relationship. Prathi has the time, space, money, and motivation to be a bit…unconventional here. Since she’s doing a favor to Rhee, Peter is currently her only patient. I have had therapists who work out of their home, therapists who have therapy dogs join in on the session, and have heard of therapists who offer “walking therapy,” where you talk and walk. But all three plus hot drinks? Definitely not normal, and could be bordering on the unprofessional, but I personally don’t think it’s past the line. Any therapists out there have any thoughts?
> 
> I feel very strongly that Peter needs to be able to *move* during his therapy sessions, which isn’t something that most traditional forms of therapy easily allow for. He’s much better at talking when he has something to do with his hands, or he can pace, or patrol. Having something else to focus on means he’s not so much caught up in his head and his own anxiety, and then makes those things easier to deal with.
> 
> The hot chocolate is because I personally always bring a thermos of a hot drink to therapy, and literally cannot imagine what I would do in a therapy setting without a hot drink. I can imagine everything else in this story, but…therapy with no hot drink? A step too far l o l. But Peter is not the kind of guy who would think about that and I wanted him to have a hot drink because they’re nice and comforting, so he gets a hot drink. And a dog. Because I love him, and I want him to get a brief reprieve and some coping skills before I tear everything away yet again. 
> 
> **Peter's phone & dumpster diving**
> 
> I completely made up the phone stuff after 2 minutes of googling “What’s inside a phone?” Not at all accurate. The Best Buy is real and really close to where I’ve put the Fosters in Murray Hill (which is one of the few residential neighborhoods in Manhattan). No idea if it has a dumpster behind it at all, let alone a good one for dumpster diving. But it’s possible?
> 
> I looked a bit into where is good to dumpster dive in NYC because I was interested, and unfortunately couldn't find a lot on the internet. I actually considered checking it out myself, but: (1) all of the places that are convenient for Peter to get to are inconvenient for me; (2) coronavirus; (3) it's probably not the best idea given how many commitments I currently have; and (4) that would be a crazy amount of research to put into a fic, even for me. I *do* kinda want to get into dumpster diving now tho. Maybe one day...
> 
> **General Updates about this work:**
> 
> I have made this work into a series, and the second part is going to be miscellaneous fanart, deleted scenes, and maybe some rants and/or research that didn’t make it into the end notes. Right now, it just has some art I did of Peter, Rhee, and May (yes, I *did* make fanart of my own fic), but I will add other stuff as the fancy takes me. Series title is taken from Poverty of Philosophy by Immortal Technique. Link.
> 
> ALSO, general question: chapters have been getting longer and longer as I realize how much shit I want to cram into them (and also just, I’ve straight-up stopped making cuts during my revisions because I don’t wanna and my fic doesn’t have to be tight if I don’t want it to be). Do people have any preferences between longer chapters or shorter chapters? For example, I could have easily split this chapter into two sections that range from 2k-5k words: one for the scenes with MJ and Skip and general exposition, and one for the therapy session. Instead, I’ve kept this chapter as a 7k monstrosity. I personally don’t even *notice* chapter length, but I’m thinking that it does make more sense to try and be consistent. I started out with chapters in the 2-3k range, but now am pretty consistently at the 5k+ range for each chapter, so I’m already pretty all over the place within this story. Is this something people care about? Do y’all have preferences? If I make the chapters shorter again, I’m probably gonna significantly bump up the total chapter numbers, but honestly at this point I think I’m gonna have to bump it up anyway. Shorter chapters will *not* mean faster updates, because I don’t write in order and have to fill in the missing scenes I find harder to write either way. Am I completely overthinking this (probably)?


	26. II-9. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter reads the news. Harley interviews potential friends. Pepper and Tony have a scare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***I’M BAAA-AAACK***
> 
> Okay, so, ~Holy Shit~ wow, thank you all so much for all the comments and feedback and support!! I am just floored by all your comments! By overwhelming popular demand, the long chapters will continue and you get an extra-long chapter now :) They won’t all be this long, but WOW I struggled with this one, and I dealt with that struggle by vomiting up thousands of words in the hope that some of them would work, so…you’re welcome? 
> 
> Also, I have rejigged my outline to be more realistic given how much I’m writing and how much is still to go. I’ve also added a whole new Part! (Though it’s not so much a *new* part as much as it is that I originally thought all the stuff that happens in Parts 1 and 2 would only take up one section, because I am a Fool.) So, the chapter count has gone up. New general outline (no spoilers) looks like this:
> 
>   * Prologue
>   * Part I (16 chapters, from May’s death until Peter gets arrested);
>   * Part II (16 chapters, from Peter’s arrest to another big shake-up—By the end of this section, we will have basically caught up to the events of the prologue, and gotten through most of the whumpiest whump);
>   * Part III (16 chapters, you will find out when we get there—this section will still deal with bad stuff, but will be more action/mystery focused, and less whump-y);
>   * Part IV (16 chapters, dealing with the ramifications & trauma of parts I—III; comfort & healing);
>   * Epilogue. 
> 

> 
> So, the new chapter count is 66 total! I like this a lot because (discounting the prologue/epilogue) it’s 4 parts of 16 (=4x4) chapters each, and that makes my little number brain happy. I am 99% sure I will be able to keep to this new chapter count, and it will mean that we will have so much time to get into the juicy, juicy weeds of everything. No idea what the word count is gonna look like—based on some quick rough calculations, somewhere between 300k and 400k? Which is…terrifying. But also exciting! I aim to have Part II done and posted by the end of February, and most of it is already written. Unfortunately, it’s the parts I struggle with writing the most (*cough* Harley *cough*) that I still need to write. Thank you all so much for going along on this ride with me <3
> 
> I will be responding to comments, because I want to and it brings me so much joy to talk with y'all, but it will be slow going because that is how my brain is right now :)
> 
> **Note:** I made a small edit to last chapter to say that Peter’s interview was at the end of January, instead beginning of February.
> 
>  **TW** in this chapter for general misinformation/fake news, anxiety, classism, ablism, dismissal of non-visible disabilities & mental illness as ‘real’ disabilities (called out in-story), child abuse (past, discussed), fear of becoming an abuser
> 
> Spoilers for season one of The Good Place

It was three weeks after he’d gotten out, and the news was everywhere. Peter studied the article on his phone as he waited in a Starbucks across from Stark Tower.

So far he’d avoided buying anything and was just enjoying their heat and free Wi-Fi, but he could see a barista giving him the stink-eye. He thought he could probably hold out long enough before they kicked him out. He only needed to make it another twenty minutes or so.

His interview was scheduled for 10:00am, and he’d gotten the day off school for it since the invitation said it might go for several hours. He got there at 9:00am, scared he would oversleep or get stuck in the subway, but now he had an hour to kill before his interview actually started. How early was too early to show up for an interview? Was half and hour okay? Twenty minutes? Peter had no idea, and his heart wouldn’t stop thumping in his throat as he tried to game it out.

It was Friday, so even though he didn’t have to go to school, he did have a meeting with his probation officer at 3:00pm, followed by his ATD with Skip. He was looking forward to just having the afternoon to do nothing, to having a few blissful hours of daylight between his interview and his probation appointment when he wasn’t being watched and monitored.

Or, he _had_ been looking forward to it. He’d thought that today would be him being nervous about the interview, stumbling through it somehow but not well enough to actually get the scholarship, and then getting to relax, maybe do a mini-patrol, and trade commiseration memes with Ned and MJ before heading to the probation office.

But that was before the news had been plastered across every headline: SPIDER-MAN: MASKED MURDERER?

Peter flipped through articles on his phone, trying to figure out what was going on.

Unfortunately, the articles were notably lacking in any information as to what had actually happened.

## SPIDEY GOES SERIAL KILLER: Local Vigilante Implicated in Multiple Murders

Spider-Man, an enhanced vigilante based in New York City, has continuously conflicted with and attacked NYPD officers since he first appeared on the scene in late 2017. Most recently, he assaulted four off-duty police officers unprovoked on December 4, according to official police reports. But now the masked menace may have graduated to murder.

Police have named Spider-Man as the prime suspect in five seemingly-random murders across the city. They have issued a warrant for the capture of the highly dangerous web-slinging vigilante, who was previously most well-known for saving a school bus full of children from hurtling off a bridge. The names of the victims and details of the case are currently being withheld due to the ongoing police investigation, but we were able to confirm that the remains recovered by police were mangled and heavily mutilated. Additionally, large chunks of the victims’ bodies are missing, and they were ripped apart by someone—or something—with extreme strength. 

We were able to speak to a witness of one of these murders, who claimed that he saw Spider-Man webbing away from the scene of the crime. He reported that Spider-Man has updated his look to match his new grisly activities: previously, the costumed crusader sported a garish, primary-colored red and blue costume seemingly made out of tracksuit material and spandex. The new costume is entirely blood-red and black, and, according to witness reports, has the texture of exposed muscle, as if he were dressed in a flayed corpse. His webs have also been given an update to match this new red-black color scheme.

Not everyone is convinced that these murders are indeed the work of…

**[PLEASE SUBSCRIBE TO CONTINUE READING]**

Peter thumbed out of that article, trying not to panic. But how could he _not_ panic? People thought he was a murderer! People thought he was a murderer, and there was an actual murderer going around killing people, and he had a scholarship interview in forty minutes that would probably define the entirety of his future, and he was probably gonna get kicked out of Starbucks, and…

“Breathe, Parker,” he growled to himself under his breath. He grabbed his Khakis in his fist, the rough fabric grounding him.

He was wearing the same clothes he’d been arrested in, for the simple reason that they were the fanciest clothes he owned. One of the outfits that the Caldwells had stuffed him in. He hadn’t gotten to keep the rest of the clothes from the Caldwells, but these ones had been handed back to him in a plastic bag when he was released. Khakis and a collared shirt under a v-neck sweater. He hadn’t owned a suit jacket, so he’d bought the cheapest one he could find at a thrift store that looked like it could vaguely fit him. It was still too big, even with the sweater, but he’d pinned it up and sewn in a few quick stitches to try and make it look better. He thought he’d done rather nicely, all things considered. All those times sewing his spidey-suit had come in pretty handy.

But his outfit was still wildly uncomfortable. That almost helped, with the grounding. He was too itchy and raw to escape his body, and his hatred for the Caldwells was a familiar, safer feeling. _Focus on that_.

Okay, priorities. One, interview. Two, get all the information he could about this imposter. Ned could probably help him. Three, hunt down the imposter and deliver him to justice. Okay. Okay. He could do that. He could do this.

There was still half an hour left before his interview was scheduled, but Peter knew if he stayed here, he would start panicking again, so he marched across the street to meet his fate.

* * *

Stark Tower took its security _seriously._ He had to leave his bag and all electronics in a locker joined to the lobby, sign a _lot_ of papers, and was then ushered up to a waiting room-type area with nothing more than the clothes on his back.

“Wait here,” said the receptionist, “and we’ll call you in for the group interview when you’ve all arrived.”

 _Group interview?_ Peter had never even _heard_ of a group interview. None of the advice sites he’d looked up online said anything about group interviews. Oh no. He was gonna mess this up. He was gonna mess this up bigtime. Shit. _Wait, professional language._ Shucks. Shoot.

He was thankfully rescued from his anxiety spiral by the arrival of another applicant, a girl with a slicked-back bun, a fitted gray skirt that went down to her knees, and a pencil stuck in her hair. She looked a few years older and much more professional than Peter, and he had a new burst of nervousness at his more scruffy appearance.

He gave her a nervous smile. “You here for the interview, too?”

Her lips tightened into something that could generously be called an attempt at a smile. “Yeah. Lindsay.” She held out a hand.

“Peter,” he introduced himself. “Did you know this was going to be a group thing?”

She shook her head, tense, and angled her body slightly away from him.

Well, okay then. Peter could take a hint. They sat in awkward silence for a full seven minutes (Peter counted by the clock on the wall) before the next applicant arrived.

New guy looked like he was in his mid-twenties instead of the high-schooler he had to be, and was wearing a well-fitted suit that looked like it cost _at least_ Peter’s food budget for the next four months. His eyes swept the room in obvious distaste. He was giving Peter very Flash Thompson-vibes, but somehow… _more_ entitled. He hadn’t known that was possible.

 _Don’t judge people before they’ve even said or done anything, Peter_ , he chided himself.

“You’re the other applicants, then?” ground out the fancy-suit boy, and, wow, it was really hard to do the whole ‘not-judging’ thing when he used _that_ kind of tone to refer to them.

“Lindsay,” Lindsay introduced herself, rising.

“Peter,” said the boy, and Peter immediately dubbed him ‘Other Peter’ in his head. Maybe ‘Worse Peter.’ No, that was mean. _No judging_.

He was gearing up to introduce himself again when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. His spidey-sense warning of…not necessarily _danger_ , but there was an odd metal _clunk_ from behind him _,_ a _whoosh_ , and then—

Peter _smelled_ the coffee soaring through the air, heard the clink of ice and the soft plastic squeal of a lid coming undone as it flew. He knew without looking that the coffee was on the perfect trajectory to soak all three of them. Time seemed to slow as Peter tried to decide whether to catch it or not. Even if he caught the cup, the coffee was already in the air. He could duck away, but the splash zone was going to be huge, and he couldn’t move fast enough to avoid getting soaked without knocking over either Other Peter or Lindsay. Plus he couldn’t really explain how he knew about coffee coming from behind him. It was iced coffee, so it wasn’t going to burn anyone. Best action would probably be to…

He hissed as the cold liquid made contact with his shirt. Even expecting it, the shock of the splash was still startlingly cold.

Other Peter swore, and Lindsay squeaked before dabbing at her skirt. Peter’s attention was more on the newest occupant of the room, who was sprawled on the floor.

He went to kneel by them. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Newest guy was big, over six-foot, but with a serious case of baby-face. Said baby-face was now blushing beetroot red. “I am so sorry,” he said in a _thick_ southern accent. But like, Kentucky-ish southern, not Mississippi Southern. Appalachian, maybe? That was a thing, right? That wasn’t _south_ south, he didn’t think, so did it even count as southern? To Peter, anything below New Jersey counted as southern, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t actually how that worked.

“Seriously, though, are you alright?” Peter pressed. “That was a pretty hard fall.”

Newest guy winced and waved him away. “S’all good.” He did accept Peter’s hand in getting up, and his eyebrows quirked slightly when he realized Peter had no problem lifting him to his feet. Peter flushed and tried to slink out of sight. _Way to keep your cover, Parker._

“You idiot! Do you have any idea how much this suit cost?” So, Peter’s suspicions about Other Peter being an entitled jerk were correct. Maybe he _should_ be downgraded to Worse Peter.

“Woah, woah, hey, man. I am _really_ sorry. I done fucked up. But it was an accident.”

Worse Peter was not accepting the apology. He continued to tear into Southern Coffee Guy, and Lindsay had stalked off to the bathroom.

Well, Peter couldn’t just stand there while his evil counterpart (his second evil counterpart of the day, too, because everything was awful!) yelled at a guy for something that was clearly a harmless mistake. So he waded into the middle and tried to calm things down.

He knew from long experience with bullies that taking a side would only escalate things, so he ignored the shouting entirely and fixed a friendly grin on his face. “You’re Peter, right?”

Worse Peter eyed him up and down. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something here?”

Peter raised his hands in a classic surrender motion. “I’m just trying to prepare for the group interview—they’ll probably be back to collect us at any moment.”

Worse Peter glowered, but calmed down at the reminder they were supposed to be on their best behavior for the interview. Peter sent an encouraging smile to Southern Coffee Guy, who beamed back at him, seemingly unruffled by the other boy screaming at him. _Thanks_ , he mouthed.

They were collected soon after by a woman with a clipboard who passed out name tags—Southern Coffee Guy was Eddie—and led them to a lab. Peter gasped as they entered.

It wasn’t even _that_ exciting. Mostly just a normal science lab, well-lit, with rows of microscopes and beakers and pipettes and neatly-labeled drawers and cabinets. But there were also giant lathes, and a welding center, and a 3D-printer that could have fit all of them inside. And it was _Stark Industries_ , which made everything that much cooler.

On one of the tables were four machine-cloth things with a bunch of tubes leading out of them, and this is what their guide led them to. Peter bounced on the balls of his feet, excited. This was _so cool._ Then he tried to still himself. Bouncing up and down with unprofessional excitement was not a part of a successful interview technique, according to all the how-to listicles he’d read online.

 _“_ These,” said their guide, “are rejected prototypes for an artificial heart currently that is currently in the process of being designed by Stark Industries.”

 _Woah_. Awesome. “As you probably know, a completely synthetic heart is somewhat of a holy grail in the field of medicine. Obviously, we don’t expect you to come up with a solution to a problem that has been stumping the world’s top scientists for decades. What we _are_ asking you to do is to read through these packets that delineate the chief priorities and top goals for the project: stuff like product effectiveness, replicability, and cost parameters. You’ve each got one prototype, an information packet, and a set of schematics for the project. The prototypes and schematics are all identical. Feel free to take the prototypes apart if you want. What we want you to do is to write a joint report—so _one_ report from all four of you—detailing _why_ you believe this prototype was scrapped, and any ideas you may have about potential tweaks, improvements, or even other avenues to explore in order to create a better artificial heart.”

“This prototype is a mixture of mechanical, chemical, electrical, and biological engineering, which, based on your contest entries, should play to your strengths. The hope is that you’ll be able to combine your knowledge and work as a team in order to first figure out what went wrong, and then suggest potential improvements to the design. You all signed the lab safety protocols before you got here, and there are copies posted there, there, and there.” She pointed them out. “Dr. Lester and I will both be at that table if you have any questions or concerns, though I would encourage you all to lean on each other before asking us for help. We’ll break for lunch at 12:30. Unless there are any pressing questions, you are free to begin.”

_So. Cool._

* * *

_So Not Cool._

They’d only been in the lab for fifteen minutes, and already everything was awful. Peter was pretty sure he was being tested, and not just for the interview. Or maybe he was in Hell. Yeah, that would make sense. He had died at some point in the last few months, probably from a Spider-Man mishap, and had only just now noticed when he got his very own trademarked Eleanor Shellstrop revelation that this was the Bad Place.

Peter blinked back a sudden and unexpected onslaught of tears. He and May had watched The Good Place together, had freaked out at the twist at the end of season one together. Peter was pretty sure there was a new season now. Season three, or maybe even four. May would never get to see it. She would never know how it ended. To learn if there was a solution for life after death. Because now May was…

_Focus._

Lindsay had immediately gone off to do the entire project on her own, and refused to even discuss strategy with the rest of them. “No offense,” she’d said, “but you’d only slow me down. I’ll come up with a comprehensive report, and if any of you have anything else to add, we can discuss it at the end.”

Which, wow. Presumptuous. But Peter couldn’t exactly talk to her about it, because Eddie and Worse Peter were going at each other with a vengeance.

They were keeping it down and ostensibly polite, or trying to, because _interview_ , but wow, it was bad. Worse Peter was throwing out a bunch of thinly veiled insinuations that basically amounted to calling Eddie an ignorant hick who’d never amount to anything and was only there on a diversity invite.

“Diversity?” Eddie faked a baffled look, but you could see the mischevious glee lurking behind it. “I’m a cis white dude from Tennessee. I mean, sure, I’m disabled and gay as all get out, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t put that on my application.”

“You’re gay?”

“Yeah.” Eddie was unflinching. “You got a problem with that?”

Worse Peter flushed. “No. But you can’t just claim you’re disabled because you’ve got ADHD or anxiety or something—that’s an insult to actual disabled people.”

Peter shifted awkwardly in his seat. They were both ignoring him, and he had nothing to do with this conversation, he’d never claimed he had a disability, but he still felt uncomfortably called out.

Eddie stared at Worse Peter for a long, tense moment. Then he reached down and rolled up his pants before _unhooking his entire leg_ at the knee and clunking it on the table.

“Just between you and me, Peter,” Eddie’s voice was ice-cold, and Peter flinched back from it even though it wasn’t directed at him, “the anxiety and depression and PTSD from _watching my mother and little sister die_ in a car crash is a hell of a lot worse than the ‘real disability’ of the missing leg.”

 _Oh shit_. _Quick, Peter, defuse the situation. Say something. Something understanding, sympathetic_. “Oh shoot, you’re part of the ‘traumatically dead parents’ club too?”

_Not that._

Eddie turned to him, huffing in disbelief and…amusement? “You have traumatically dead parents?”

“Um, yeah, sort of. I guess.” Compared to _watching your mother and sister die_ , his own struggles seemed inconsequential. But now that he’d said it, he might as well keep digging his hole. “Plane crash. And then my aunt and uncle took me in, and…they were _both_ murdered in botched robberies, actually. About a year apart.” That particular parallel hadn’t actually occurred to him until just then. Which, huh. He didn’t know how he felt about that. “I was only there for one of them though.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Trauma buddies?” Eddie held his hand out for a fistbump, and Peter couldn’t help but huff out a laugh under his breath.

He completed the fistbump. “Sure. Trauma buddies. But we should probably also be science buddies, since we’ve got this whole…” He gestured at the artificial hearts.

“Right, yeah. Time to get cracking.”

In an unexpected upside to Peter and Eddie bonding over their dead families, Other Peter was much quieter and subdued throughout the rest of the morning and stopped his constant sniping.

Other Peter was actually a fairly competent mechanical and electrical engineer, and had actual experience in marketing stuff from a summer internship, which was super helpful. Eddie also specialized in mechanical and electrical engineering, in addition to having a pretty deep background in bio-synthetic interfacing.

Peter had a decent grounding in robotics and electrical engineering that was helpful for understanding what was going on, but nowhere near the level the other two boys were talking at. His real contributions were with the synthetic fiber that made up the walls of the heart and the interlocking pump systems. Plus he had a pretty good understanding of the cardiovascular system, what with May’s mandatory EMT training and his own research into his weird spider body.

By noon, they had a relatively good preliminary work-up written. Plus he and Eddie were getting along like a house on fire. Even Other Peter wasn’t that bad once he got over himself.

Now they just needed to convince Lindsay to join their little group, and all would be good. Peter was actually beginning to feel pretty good about how this was going when they split for lunch.

They were given pre-paid tokens to exchange for a meal at the Stark Industries cafeteria, and Peter got a heaping order of thai green chicken curry and an entire bowl of fruit salad. Plus a coke and a brownie!

Peter almost successfully covered up his moan when he bit into the meal. It had just been _so long_ since he’d had food that he actually enjoyed. Potatoes and rice and beans lost their appeal after you’d had nothing but that and bad school cafeteria food for weeks.

But now he had fresh fruit! And curry, with actual good spices! And meat! Blessed meat! And _chocolate_! He sighed in contentment.

“You okay there?” Eddie asked, grinning. The two of them had the table for themselves. Worse Peter and Lindsay had very deliberately sat at seperate ends of the counter that lined the window. Their loss. “Or are you just gonna continue making sweet, sweet love to your lunch?” Over the course of the morning, his accent had faded to the point where Peter probably wouldn’t have even picked it out as an accent at all.

“Fuck you,” said Peter, grinning back through a mouthful of food. “This is a very nice lunch. Very classy, and I’d thank you not to speak of her that way.” He swallowed. “And didn’t you used to have an accent?”

Eddie snorted and stole a chunk of pineapple from Peter’s fruit salad bowl. “Yeah, but I can kinda turn it on or off, depending on if I want to. _Some people_ up here are real dicks if you speak like white trash, and I like to weed them out early.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “Not a bad tactic.” He did a similar thing around people who might not be cool with the trans thing. Make a huge fucking stink of it up front, so the out-and-out transphobes would make themselves known before he got too hurt. He was pretty sure that’s what Eddie had been doing with the gay and disabled things too. “Still gonna steal your garlic bread for putting me through a secret moral test of character. And to avenge my stolen pineapple.”

Eddie smirked. “You can _try_.”

Soon it became an out-and-out war, and Peter probably ate just as much of Eddie’s food as he did his own.

By the end of lunch, Peter found himself breathless with laughter. It was dizzying, like a weight he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying had lifted, just a little. With a start, he realized that it had probably been… _months_ since he’d hung out with someone without the spectre of hurt or death or Spider-Man hanging over them.

Which was weird, considering that his friendship with Eddie had literally started with them bonding over death.

But it wasn’t bad.

It wasn’t bad at all.

* * *

After lunch, they were gathered back into the lab.

The lady in charge of the interview process explained that they’d have until 5:00pm to finish their report.

And just like that, Peter was brought back to earth.

His chest constricted with anxiety. _Until 5:00pm?_ That sounded…honestly, it sounded great. Everything he wanted. Even if Other Peter and Lindsay weren’t great company, the lab itself was a dream come true, and he was really enjoying hanging out with Eddie.

But his appointment with the probation officer was at 3:00pm.

 _Fuck_.

He couldn’t stay.

He couldn’t.

Peter’s mind raced, trying to find some way out of it, some loophole, something, _anything_.

There was nothing.

He would have to drop out of the competition.

“Hey, Pete, you okay?” Eddie’s voice was distant. Peter couldn’t deal with this right now.

Maybe…maybe he could call his probation officer, postpone the meeting…but then he had ATD with Skip at 4:00, and he’d have to postpone _that_ too, and he knew, he just knew that there was no way the probation officer would actually agree anyway.

Feeling like he was walking to the gallows, Peter approached the woman who was in charge of the interviews.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” He could barely force his voice above a whisper.

“Yes, Mr.”—her eyes found his name tag—“Parker?”

“I, um,” he swallowed rapidly, trying not to cry. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t realize the interview would go on so long, I have…an appointment that I can’t miss.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her where he actually had to go, too ashamed and afraid. “I’m really so sorry. Is there any—is there any way, I could come back some other time, or, or—?” He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

The woman frowned at him. “This really is an important aspect of the interview process, as we noted in the invitation, and the opportunity of a lifetime. Plus it might affect the other applicants, to be down a team member. Could you reschedule your appointment? I’m sure your parents would understand.”

Peter winced. _Parents_ weren’t a problem he’d had in a long time. “I can try—If I can go down to get my phone from the locker room, I can try to call and reschedule, but I don’t think it’s very likely. I really…It’s almost 2:00, and it takes 40 minutes to get there, so I probably have to leave now. I’ll try to stay, but I don’t think I can. I’m really sorry. I’m so sorry.” _Don’t cry_.

The woman still looked troubled. “Okay. Well, you do that, and come back if you can. If not, just sign out downstairs and leave your badge at reception. You can email the official competition address listed on the information packet to discuss the possibility of rescheduling, but I don’t think it will be likely.”

Peter nodded, miserable. “Thank you. And…sorry, again. I really—” _Deep breaths, Parker. Don’t cry._ “I really appreciated this opportunity. Thank you.” That was what all the interviewing tips on the internet said to say before you left. They also said not to _walk out in the middle of the interview_ —or they _would_ , if that was a thing that needed to be spelled out for anyone—but Peter tried not to think about that.

He slipped into the elevator and down to the locker room where his bag and phone were stored. It was eerily quiet, rows of white lockers on white floors and white walls, insulated and set apart from the gentle noise of the lobby.

He pushed in his code and fished his phone out of his bag, mind flashing between numbness and panic.

His probation officer, predictably, was not sympathetic.

“Please,” said Peter. “ _Please_. This is a really great opportunity, for me to get a scholarship and become a productive citizen and—”

“Scholarships are privileges, probationer, not rights. If this so-called interview even exists. You can apply for another scholarship. I expect your sorry ass down in this office at 3:00pm sharp. No excuses.”

“But—”

The line went dead, and Peter went limp. He sagged against the lockers, defeated. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whispered into the empty air.

“Um, hey…Peter?”

Peter startled. His spidey-sense hadn’t warned him there was anyone nearby.

Eddie, looking at him with curious and cautious eyes. “You okay? Want to talk about it? Or go back up there?”

“… _I can’t_.” The whispered words solidified in the air and became reality, and it took everything Peter had not to break down in sobs. After _everything_ , after everything he’d gone through to enter the competition, this would be the end. Plus he was sabotaging three people who really didn’t deserve it on his way out. Even if Other Peter and Lindsay were dicks, it didn’t mean they deserved to have the opportunity of a lifetime blown for his mistakes.

“C’mon, man. I didn’t hear much of your call, but it didn’t sound like anyone’s dying or that you actually wanted to go to…whatever that was, so just skip. I’m sure they’ll get it eventually, even if they’re mad at you. And if they don’t, fuck ‘em. It’s _Stark Industries_. When else are you going to get a chance like that?”

“Never.” Peter huffed out a bitter laugh. “But I—skipping’s not really an option.”

“Why not?” Eddie sounded genuinely curious, rather than accusing or dismissive, so maybe that was why Peter answered honestly.

“Probation officers aren’t known for their understanding, and I _can’t_ go back to juvie.”

“You were in juvie?” Eddie perked up. “What was that like?”

Peter grimaced. “Very much not as cool as it sounds.”

“Right. Was that insensitive? I have trouble telling sometimes. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” The words were automatic. Nothing was okay. “I just… _I made it all this way_."

He squeezed his eyes shut against an onslaught of tears. “I thought for sure it would disqualify me from this competition, getting arrested, if they didn’t just throw out my application without reading it because I had to handwrite it in pencil since they kept the computers on such tight lockdown. I just— _fuck_ , I worked so hard on this stupid competition, despite _everything that could possibly go wrong_ going wrong. And _I made it_. I almost had something. And now I just…”

Eddie was staring at him with a sort of dawning horror at Peter’s absolute breakdown. Peter felt bad for pouring all his pathetic problems on the kid, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

“This scholarship could have been _everything_ for me, and now I’m just…Is college even an option anymore? Probably not! Because I’ll be the kid who _walked out_ on an interview with Stark Industries.” _Why was he confessing all of this to a kid who was basically a stranger? A competitor? Well, fuck it, it wasn’t like he was going to get the scholarship anyway._

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how college admissions work, Tutu,” said Eddie.

“Yeah, but still!” There was a point there, and the point was that his life was ruined. Also, “…Tutu?”

“Um. Nickname?”

Peter stared at him, confused. “ _Why?_ ”

There was a ringing silence in the locker area.

“Uh, sorry,” said Peter, rubbing the back of his neck. “For putting this all on you. I just needed to rant for a minute, and I’m never gonna see you again, so it’s fine. You don’t have to, like, sympathize, or, like, do anything. So, sorry again, and I’m just gonna…go.”

“Wait!”

Peter was already jogging towards the door. “I do kinda have to go. Like… _now_.”

“Okay,” said Eddie, keeping pace. “I’ll come with.”

 _That_ ground Peter to a halt, just inside the door to the main lobby. “…What?” The implications of that caught up with him. “No, you need to go back up there! You can’t just throw away what’s basically the greatest opportunity of all time. It’s _Stark Industries_.” He threw Eddie’s earlier words back at him.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Eddie, easy and unbothered. “I’m not gonna win anything, anyway.” He stated it as a simple certainty, but didn’t seem upset about it at all.

Peter rolled his eyes. He didn’t have _time_ for this. “You don’t know that. You’re plenty smart, and you got this far, didn’t you?”

“Actually, I kinda didn’t.”

“…What?”

“Long story. You gotta go if you don’t want to be late, so I’ll explain on the way.”

“I…Eddie, you can’t throw this opportunity away for _me_. You don’t even know me! And it doesn’t make _sense_. Like, there is literally _no reason_ for you to follow me right now.”

Eddie shrugged. “Sure there is. You don’t seem like you should be alone right now, and I am a person who can keep you company. And, seriously, don’t worry about the competition. It’s chill.”

“No it’s not! It’s a _huge deal_.” It was everything Peter had ever wanted, everything that he’d thought maybe he could have.

“Okay, um, how to explain this really quickly? I’m not…I didn’t actually _enter_ the competition. And my name’s not Eddie.”

_What the fuck?_

“It’s Harley Keener. Stark. Keener-Stark. Harley Keener-Stark. There we go. I know my own name. Wow, I’ve never introduced myself to anyone before. Well, not since the adoption. But, uh, basically I was doing secret tests of character? For the scholarship thing. And everyone else failed it. Like, hardcore. So, congrats! You’re not a shitty person!”

_What the FUCK?_

But…yeah, Peter could kind of see it. Tony Stark had completely locked down any new pictures of his adopted son being published, but the kid in front of him kinda looked like a grown-up version of the boy who’d been splashed across the papers a few years ago. If he’d hit a really generous growth spurt. Wow. Okay. “Huh.”

“Sooo,” Eddie— _Harley_ —continued, “I’m definitely not going to be losing out on any scholarship opportunities. But _you_ are going to be late if we keep standing here talking, so…shall we?”

 _Right. The probation office_. “Are you sure that’s…allowed? Like, don’t you need security or something?” He’d definitely read something about Harley Keener being kidnapped. Or attempted kidnappings? _Obviously_ , Peter would protect him from anything bad happening, but Harley didn’t know that. Unless he did? _Holy shit, what if Harley Keener was trying to befriend him because he knew Peter was Spider-Man and was trying to take him down in some sort of secret-spy-mission thing for the Avengers?_

“Nah, it’s good,” said Harley, much more nonchalant than Peter ever would have been about multiple kidnapping attempts. “I have a panic button. And no one really knows what I look like anymore. So…are we blowing this popsicle stand, or…?”

“I _guess_!” said Peter, because, sure, fine, this might as well be happening. Today had been an emotional whiplash of a rollercoaster, and it was only barely past lunch.

“Cool. Where to, buckaroo?”

“Buckaroo?”

“Yeah, not my best. But Tutu doesn’t really fit your face now that I can see it.”

_Again…what?_

“Where are we going?” Harley untied his hoodie from around his waist and shrugged it on. It wouldn’t be warm enough, but they would only be outside for a block or two on either end. And it wasn’t like Peter had a winter coat either.

“Probably the 4 or 5 from Grand Central is closest.”

“Awesome. I’ve never been on the subway before.”

“ _What?!_ ” Peter sputtered, trying to wrap his mind around how that was even _possible_. “How long have you lived in New York?”

“Only two years.”

Yeah. Did not compute. “And you’ve never been on the subway? _How?”_

Harley shrugged. “Just haven’t.”

 _Iron Man doesn’t go on the subway, obviously, Peter, think_. “Wow, okay. We have to rectify that. You are _definitely_ coming with me, and we’re gonna fix this grievous lapse in your education.” His mouth was going a mile a minute, the same way it did when he was in trouble as Spider-Man.

He wasn’t really sure why Harley Keener— _Harley Keener_ —had latched onto him, but it he obviously wasn’t gonna get rid of the older boy just by talking, and it couldn’t _hurt_ , could it? Internally, Peter winced. He knew better than to ask that question, even in the privacy of his own brain. He had enough to worry about, with the Fosters and the kids and the fake murder-y Spider-Man and probation and ATD and Ned’s dad and getting enough money to pay for food and blockers, and he really didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with whatever had made _Tony Stark’s son_ latch onto him.

Harley grinned, oblivious to Peter’s inner turmoil. “Awesome.”

* * *

“Ms. Potts?” Veronica stuck her head into Pepper’s office. “Melinda Markey, from the scholarship competition, here to speak to you? She says it’s to do with Keener, but she won’t tell me what.”

At some point over the last few weeks of working with them, Harley had stopped being ‘Harley’ or ‘Mr. Keener’ to the SI staff. Instead, he was just ‘Keener.’ Or ‘Keens.’ That was good, right? A nickname meant he was making friends. Unless the fact they were leaving the ‘Stark’ part out of it made him feel unwelcome? She just didn’t know…

Pepper sighed and snapped out of her thoughts. “Yeah, send her in.”

Melinda stepped in, wringing her hands. They’d never really interacted before, and Pepper did her best to show an accomodating smile. “What’s he done this time?”

“Um, I’m so sorry to be bothering you with this Ms. Potts, and I really hope it’s nothing, but I thought it best to inform you just in case…”

“Breathe.” Pepper pushed down her own flare of panic. “What happened?”

“Keener’s been helping with the interviews for the competition, which you know—of course you know that—and we had a round today. Anyway, he was really getting along with one of the kids, Peter, and that kid asked to go make a phone call around 2:00 and said that he would probably have to leave after that, and Keener stepped out to follow him. I didn’t think much of it—I thought he was just going to the lobby to say goodbye or try to get the other kid’s number, but then he never came back. And…I’m sure it’s nothing, he’s just wandered off somewhere, or gone to your apartment, but—”

“FRIDAY, where’s Harley?” Pepper pretended not to notice the way Melinda blanched at her tone.

“Mr. Keener left the premises at 2:21pm. Would you like me to retrieve the tracking data from his watch?”

“Please.” 2:21pm. It was 3:17pm now. Harley had been gone for _almost an hour_ , and no one had known. Pepper ran through the kidnapping protocols in her mind, prepared for the worst.

“Mr. Keener is currently on Baxter Street, between Canal Street and Hester Street, heading north.”

Pepper blinked. That was right on the border of Chinatown and Little Italy. Mob? Or was that paranoia speaking?

“Vitals?” The kidnappers could have ditched his watch. There were supposed to be safeguards in place for that, but Tony and Pepper both had powerful enemies.

“Normal. His body temperature is perhaps a touch cold, but within reasonable parameters given the weather outside.”

“Call him.” Pepper glanced at the pale woman in front of her. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Melinda. I’ll take it from here.”

As Melinda gratefully slipped out the door, FRIDAY spoke up. “I could do that, Boss, but Mr. Keener’s phone is currently on premises in his bedroom. He left it there in anticipation of today’s interviews, as normal applicants are not permitted mobile devices passed security.”

Pepper growled and ran a hand through her hair. Of course he had. “Did he leave the building voluntarily?”

“It appears so, boss. I can get you audio and visual recordings of his time up until he exited the building.”

“Do that. And get me a visual of him, from a street cam or something. As recent as you can. And keep tracking him.” She was already moving, the comforting click-clack of her heels on the marble halls. “Tony’s in his workshop?”

“Yes, boss. He is currently engaged in research on Spider-Man in the wake of the recently-publicized murders.”

“Put me through to him.” The elevator doors dinged open. “And tell Happy to start driving down there ASAP.”

“On it, boss.”

“Thank you, FRI.”

Pepper stood in the elevator as it moved upwards, tense.

“Other boss has declined your call, and Mr. Hogan is en route. I have also obtained a recent picture of Mr. Keener, taken approximately five minutes ago. He is currently not moving, and seems to have settled inside Kam Hing Coffee Shop.” The picture was definitely Harley, absolutely unharmed and smiling softly, wearing only a sweatshirt against the winter chill and strolling down the street alone.

Pepper considered forcing her call to Tony through, but the elevator opened onto Tony’s lab and it was quicker to do it in-person.

“Tony!” she called, sharp. “Your kid is in serious trouble, and you need to deal with it. Now.”

She heard a clatter and a muffled swear, and walked in that direction.

“Aw, c’mon, Pep, the pranks are good for company morale, and it keeps R&D on their toes.”

“Not what I’m talking about. Do _you_ know why Harley is at a cafe in _Chinatown_ right now instead of inside the tower interviewing people?”

“He’s— _what_?” Tony was already summoning the suit.

“Mr. Keener just purchased a large Ovaltine and three sponge cakes,” FRIDAY stated.

“What?” That got Tony—now fully suited up—to pause for a second.

Pepper took a deep breath. “I don’t _think_ he’s been kidnapped. _Yet_. His vitals are fine, I’ve sent Happy to go pick him up, and—FRIDAY, bring up the photo?”

A hologram of the photo from earlier appeared between them. “I have traced Mr. Keener’s whereabouts from the time he exited the tower along with one of the scholarship contest participants, a Peter Parker. Mr. Keener purchased a MetroCard at a kiosk in Grand Central Station at 2:24pm, and both boys boarded the 2:26pm southbound 4 train.”

Stills from security tapes flashed up to accompany FRIDAY’s account as she spoke. “Both boys disembarked at the Canal Street station, and proceded southwards on foot until reaching the courthouse building at 60 Lafayette Street. Once there, the two separated; Mr. Parker went inside the building and Mr. Keener retraced his steps northwards, then wandered generally east for seven minutes before entering Kam Hing Coffee Shop, where he currently remains.”

“What the fuck, kid?” Tony muttered. “Bring up stats on the—on the other one. The scholarship contest kid. And photos. Did he look threatening? Where is he now?”

“Peter Parker, age fifteen. Pulling up his application now. He is currently inside the courthouse at 60 Lafayette Street. As to whether he ‘looked threatening,’ I have insufficient data in order to come to any conclusion. I do have audio and visual recordings of Mr. Keener and Mr. Parker in the locker room shortly before leaving. Would you like me to play that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Tony. “And go through everything you have access to. I want to know everything there is about this kid.”

“Yes, boss.”

A video feed replaced the photo, and Pepper moved over so she could stand against Tony. She gripped his metal-encased hand in hers as the video popped up.

“Well, I’m gonna go ahead and say that kid definitively does _not_ look threatening. He can’t be a buck twenty soaking wet.”

“Mm.” Pepper nodded in agreement. His large, ill-fitting clothes made him seem even smaller. “Doesn’t mean he isn’t a threat.”

They watched the video of Harley and Peter in the locker room. With every passing second, Pepper felt her fear recede and her anger grow. He hadn’t been kidnapped. He hadn’t been hurt. No, he’d just decided to _leave_ the safety of Stark Tower, after everything that had happened, without telling anyone. And with a confessed criminal! Who had shown more sense than Harley had by at least _thinking_ about security and notifying the interviewer that he would have to leave.

“What the hell does he think he’s doing?!” Tony seemed to be on the same page. “That’s not—he can’t just—!!”

Pepper took a breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Blowing up at _Tony_ wouldn’t help anything. “He’s turning into another you,” she remarked with bitter amusement.

 _Whoops_. That probably wasn’t going to help the situation calm down.

Tony sputtered. “I am not—I have never once in my life done something _that_ stupid and reckless.”

Pepper barked a laugh.

“Pep.” His voice was offended.

“Oh.” Pepper looked at him. “You were serious.” She broke out into real peals of laughter. Now that she’d started, she couldn’t seem to stop. Just—hysterical laughter. Relief and disbelief and anger and tension that had been pressing upon her for _weeks_ finally breaking. It hurt. She couldn’t stop. There were tears streaming down her face. She sank to the ground, gasping.

“Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Pep. Pep, you’re okay. Um, shit. Uh, um, okay, okay. We can fix this. We can fix this. Okay. FRIDAY, do something!”

She waved him off. “I’m fine,” she got out between gulps of air. “I’m fine.” _Breathe. Breathe_. “Harley?”

“Still at the bakery,” FRIDAY reported. “Mr. Hogan is approximately eight minutes away from his location, and there is no indication that Mr. Keener is in any additional danger. I have completed my search on Peter Parker, the boy accompanying Mr. Keener on his excursion, if you would like the results.”

Tony hesitated, obviously torn between wanting to fly after Harley and staying with Pepper.

“If you want to go, go,” said Pepper. “Don’t stay on my account. Just remember that you’ll definitely draw more attention to Harley by showing up in the suit, _and_ you’ll probably get chewed out by the UN for deploying the Iron Man suit in public without authorization under the Accords.”

Tony made a face. “Fuck the UN, and _fuck_ the Accords. What are they gonna do, talk at me? That’s what mute is for.”

Pepper sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She didn’t even try to rise from her seat on the floor of Tony’s workshop. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. I’ll figure out a plan to deal with the fallout.”

But she didn’t hear the familiar sound of Iron Man taking off. “It probably would be…not smart, PR-wise and kidnapping-wise, to go after Harley if no one’s recognized him yet,” said Tony. “And Happy’s almost there.”

Pepper looked up at him, surprised. “Happy’s almost there,” she echoed.

Tony gave a curt nod, and dismissed the armor. He sank down to sit next to Pepper.

She curled her hand around his. “Proud of you. Trusting someone who’s not you.”

“Hap’s been around long enough he’s basically an extension of me. A less-smart, less-handsome extension.”

Pepper snorted. “What do you have on him, FRI?”

“Mr. Parker’s date of birth on his application is listed as November 11, 2003, making him fifteen years old. I was unable to find digital records of Mr. Parker’s birth certificate or other form of identification in my databases, but it is likely that his records were some of those compromised in the 2012 Chitauri attack on New York, as his application lists his place of birth as New York, New York. He has had a library card for the New York Public Library since August 2013, and I can pull up the records of books he’s withdrawn and any internet usage on library computers if you wish. He was adopted by May Parker, a resident of Queens, on July 9, 2018. Ms. Parker died two months later, on September 1, 2018, the victim of a botched robbery. Mr. Parker then became a ward of the state.”

Pepper and Tony exchanged a look at that. Pepper was pretty sure Tony was on the same page as her—torn between sympathy and suspicion. Could Peter Parker have had anything to do with the death of his adopted mother? The timing was suspect, though Pepper couldn’t think of any obvious motives.

FRIDAY went on. “I also found several indications of court records in both family court and criminal court, as well as case files from OCFS and ACS, but the records themselves have not been digitized. He was detained in Crossroads Juvenile Detention Facility in Brooklyn from December 20th of last year, when he was arrested, for approximately two weeks until January 5th of this year, when he entered a guilty plea. The arrest report has not been digitized, but the guilty plea was to custodial interference in the second degree, reckless endangerment in the second degree, and assault in the third degree, and included an agreement to three years’ probation. No further details as to the nature of the crimes are available from materials in any digitized database. According to the internal calendars for the Department of Probation, he has a standing appointment with an officer there every Friday at 3:00pm for the next three years, which explains his journey to the courthouse at 60 LaFayette Street, as that building also houses the New York City Probation Department’s Office of Juvenile Operation.”

 _Assault. Endangerment._ The words tumbled through Pepper’s head.

“What crimes did he commit?” Tony’s voice was clipped, tense. “If he plead guilty to assault and all that, the actual crimes he did must have been worse.” Pepper could hear the real question beneath it. _How dangerous is this criminal who took my son?_

“As I stated, boss, the records have not been digitized, and so I cannot access them. There should be a police report of the arrest, but the NYPD is currently operating at about a five-month backlog for digitizing reports. The courts and agencies in question do not digitize the vast majority of their records, and operate almost exclusively on paper. I can see that the records are there, but in order to obtain the information therein, we would have to submit a request for the paper records.”

“Do that,” Tony ordered. “And put a rush on it. Are there any other records you can find, FRI? Police records, something from the prison, _anything_?”

There was a brief pause before FRIDAY stated, “The requests have been submitted. According to the intake log of Crossroads Juvenile Detention Facility, Mr. Parker was arrested on suspicion of kidnapping, assault, and reckless endangerment of multiple children.”

Tony rocketed up. He was out the window, suit forming around him as he fell, before Pepper could even form a full thought.

She didn’t blame him. Her heart was stuck in her throat. She shouldn’t have stopped Tony from going out the first time he’d wanted to. She should have sent him the instant she’d learned Harley had left the building. She should have made him build her her own fucking suit so that she could—

“Mr. Hogan is now with Mr. Keener. They are currently leaving the bakery and entering the vehicle.”

Pepper released a shaking breath. “Tony,” she forced out. “FRIDAY, does Tony…?”

“I have informed other boss of the updated situation.”

“Put me through to him.”

“Pepper.” Tony’s voice was almost unrecognizable with emotion.

“He’s okay. He’s okay.”

“He won’t be, when I’m done with him.”

“Tony.”

“What?” Tony snapped. “He can’t _do_ that. He can’t—There need to be _consequences_.”

“I know,” said Pepper. “I know. And I agree. But I think we should let him come back with Happy and you and I both try to calm down, come up with a united plan of action before we confront him.”

“ _Calm down?!_ Pep, the kid nearly gave me a heart attack. And you! Don’t tell me you’re okay. He could have _died_. He could have fucking died, and if I have to beat that into his—” The line went dead silent.

Pepper froze on the ground, hardly daring breathe.

“Yeah, okay, I’m coming back.” Tony’s voice was flat and completely devoid of any emotion.

“Okay. Tony, you know you’re not—”

The line cut off.

Pepper closed her eyes. She was so tired. She was _so tired._ But she got up, and took the elevator to the landing dock. She got there about the same time as Tony, the suit whirring off him in a flying swarm of mechanical parts. She strode straight through it and pulled his head to hers.

“You are not your father,” she said.

Tony didn’t say anything.

“You are _nothing_ like your father.”

“Don’t lie to me, Pep. My first thought, after I knew he was safe, _my first thought_ , was to, to—”

“You didn’t, though. You had the thought, _because of what he did to you_ , and you recognized that it was wrong, and you _immediately_ stopped yourself.”

“If you hadn’t—”

“No. Tony Stark, listen to me. You recognized it was wrong, and you stopped yourself. You are not your father, and you—”

“You don’t know that, Pep! I shouldn’t be anywhere near—”

“—never could be! Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a good—”

“—children, I’m a fucked up piece of shit who can’t do anything but—”

“—person, and you have a heart, and I know, I _know_ —”

“—hurt everyone I care about! I should be locked away for the good of—”

“—you love Harley. You love that kid, and you would never—”

“—all mankind. Especially you and Harley! How can you even bear—”

“—hurt him the way you’ve been hurt. So will you just shut up, and _listen_ to—”

“—to look at me? I can’t, because you’re not seeing the point! I’m dang—”

“—me? You have not done anything. But you need to get a fucking hold of yourself—”

“—erous! You can’t let me anywhere near the kid, he can’t be—”

“—before Harley gets back, because that is your job now! You are a par—”

“—near me! I can’t do this! I’m defective! I can’t be a father, and I was an idiot for ever thinking—”

“—ent! So you need to get over your _bullshit_ , Tony Stark, and step up for _your son_!”

Ringing silence.

They’d never used the word ‘son’ before. Not out loud.

They both stood there in the freezing cold wind, clinging to each other and panting.

“Pepper, please, can’t you—?”

“He is _your son_ , Tony. I will be there, and you will be okay. You will be great. He is your son, and you need to do this.”

She pulled him closer. “I’ll be there. I’ll always be there. But you can do this, Tony. You’re a wonderful father, gentler than I ever knew you could be. And I see you smile when you’re with him, however much you try to hide it, and he _lights up_ when you enter the room, and it makes something warm in me I never knew I could feel again, not something I thought I could ever believe in again. After—everything, I don’t think I believed that there _could_ be good parents. Good fathers. But you, Tony Stark, you’re proving me wrong every day. You are a wonderful father, and you will keep being a wonderful father. Because we are ending the mistakes of the past. They end with us.”

For a moment, all she could hear was Tony’s ragged breathing. “He’s your son too, you know.”

“What?” Pepper smiled through the automatic denial. “No, I’m not—I’m not a mother. I’m certainly not _his_ mother. He had a mother, and I could never, never replace…”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re just as much his parent as I am, even if you’re not on the papers. And as much as you deny it, you’re great with him. I see it. I see how you bring your work to wherever he is, just to spend time with him. How much effort you put into finding him friends he’ll actually accept. The hot chocolate, everything. Pepper, I don’t deserve you, but you’re amazing. You know that, right? You, Pepper Potts, are an amazing mother.”

Pepper pushed down a wave of nausea and fear and closed her eyes against the tears. It was just the cold, ripping them from her ducts. “Very smooth, Mr. Stark.” She raised herself up to kiss him. “We should—”

“Go inside and form an actual parenting plan for our pseudo-son, yes. We should do that.”

“Yep.”

“Maybe get Hap to do a few rounds around the block, give us some time.”

“Yep.”

“He is grounded, though, right? For the next…forever.”

“ _Yep_.”

Tony breathed, nodded to himself. “Okay, okay. We can do this. We can do this.” He paused, thought. “We’re _burying_ Kidnapper Kid, yeah?”

Pepper smiled, a cold and vicious thing. No one put Harley at risk, no one hurt Tony like that on her watch. “ _Oh_ yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been building up this meeting between Peter and Harley for much too long. It was SO HARD to write. SO HARD. Tony and Harley are definitely the characters I struggle with the most, and there’s a lot of both of them in this chapter. I’m still not 100% happy with the interview bit itself, but figure it’s best to just publish it! 
> 
> **Deleted Scene from this Chapter**
> 
> I have included some deleted scenes from this chapter as a chapter in [Chaos Like a Motherfucker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583838/chapters/69970080), the companion piece in this series with extras/art/research/deleted scenes/etc.
> 
> There’s (1) a brief snippet of a Harley POV; (2) a very crack-y exchange between Peter, Worse Peter, and Harley (who decides to introduce himself as Peter when he realizes what’s going on) all fighting over who gets to use the name Peter; and (3) another long chunk dealing with Harley’s insecurities that had some Harley & Peter exchanges I really liked. I ultimately couldn’t fit any of these things smoothly into the story, but I had fun writing them and it helped me get into Harley’s headspace, so…enjoy!
> 
> The companion piece also has a timeline (of both pre-story and in-story events), some art, and an earlier version of the scene with Yomi warning Peter about the Caldwells (along with an explanation of why I changed that scene).
> 
>  **On binding:**  
>  Several people have asked whether Peter binds or has had top surgery, and the answer is…kinda neither? He started puberty blockers almost as soon as he started puberty (in 2015, when he was 11-12 or so, as detailed in the [timeline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583838/chapters/67993447),) so he never really grew enough breast tissue that it’s been a problem. I *think* that’s somewhat realistic if you start blockers early enough, but I’m not sure and couldn’t find good info online. Let me know if you know more about this than I do!  
> He *might* bind if he’s feeling particularly dysphoric, and he definitely packs (esp. in the suit, lbr), but as a general rule, his chest tissue is more pec-like than boob-like (especially with the muscle conversion from the spider bite!), so he doesn’t feel the need to bind. Will try to put this explicitly in the text of the story somewhere. Hmm….
> 
> Also, whoops, I learned that the maximum probation for juveniles in NY is two years, not three, but…whatever. In this alt-universe, it’s three years.


	27. II-10. WWCAD?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okey dokey, here we go. Next chapter probably won’t be for a few weeks because I have real-life responsibilities that I’ve been ignoring for far too long and they might be finally catching up to me. Some of y’all’s comments gave me, like, the best serotonin bursts I’ve had in literal months, so. Yeah. Thanks. 
> 
> I also know that it can be hard to read this fic at the best of times, and it might be especially hard with everything that’s happening in the world (and specifically the US) right now. There’s nothing too too bad in this chapter, but please take care of yourselves. Pace yourself, drink some water, take your meds, reach out to supportive friends and family. We’re not alone, and thank you for being here with me through this story <3
> 
> **TW** for police brutality, general misinformation/fake news, anxiety, sensory overload

Pepper sat on a cleared-off lab bench, and tried to breathe. Confronting Harley had _not_ gone as planned.

The whole thing had started wrong as soon as the elevator doors opened, revealing a grumpy Happy shepherding a very sheepish Harley.

Harley had winced when he saw their faces, then tried to grin and saunter in as if nothing had happened. “Hey Tony, Pep. How’s it hanging? I got sponge cakes.” He’d held up a paper bag with a little shake.

Despite her repeated warnings to Tony, _Pepper_ was the one who had lost her temper then. “ _How’s it hanging_?! Are you _serious_?”

From there, it had quickly devolved into a three-way screaming match. Harley gave as good as he got, and forty minutes later saw them all exhausted and wrung-out.

“All right, fine. We’re good. We’re good. Enough.” Tony’s voice was tired through his panting. “We’ll all go calm down, and it’s over. You’re safe, you’re grounded, and you’re never going to see Kid Criminal again, so we’re all good.”

Harley’s face went dark. “No.”

“ _No?_ ” said Tony, all the fight and fire in him brought right back to blazing. “Wanna run that by me again, shortstack? It’s not optional.”

“No,” said Harley again, mutinous. “You wanted me to make friends. I made a friend. He’s staying.”

Pepper rubbed her temples and sank against the table. They had _just_ finished the last round of shouting. “Surely you can make a different friend. A _safer_ one.”

“No.”

“Is that your only word now, _no_?” Tony snapped. “Reverting to toddlerhood, are we?”

Harley jut out his chin and met Tony’s eye. “No.” He smirked.

Tony’s lips thinned against a smile. “You’re a little shit, Keener.”

“You love me for it.”

Tony sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, whatever. Don’t make a big deal of it.”

Harley hummed in amusement. “You _looove_ me.”

“I take it back.”

“Nope. Too late, no takesbacksies.”

“Ugh, fine.”

“Say it.”

“Nope.”

“Say it.”

“In your dreams.”

“Tonyyyy.”

“Ugh, fine. I love you, you ungrateful brat.” Tony reached up to ruffle Harley’s hair.

“I know,” Harley replied, smug.

“You did not just Han Solo me.”

Pepper tuned out their bickering and covered her eyes against an oncoming migraine. By the time she tuned back in, the conversation had circled back around to the subject of one Peter Parker, a.k.a. Tutu, a.k.a. Harley’s ex-nemesis, a.k.a. Harley’s new best friend, a.k.a. probable kidnapper and main source of Pepper’s headache.

“You were already planning to give him the scholarship, _and_ patent his fabric thing,” Harley was saying. “Why is this any different?”

“Let’s think, hm? One, nobody made any decisions about the scholarship thing yet. I’m sure that kind of thing can be disqualifying. And two, giving someone a scholarship is very different than having him hang around your kid all day.”

“It wouldn’t be _all day._ He has school. And a job, and, like, an after-school program.”

“That’s not the point!”

“What is the point, then?”

“The _point_ is I’m not letting you hang out with a kidnapper!”

“He’s not a kidnapper.” Harley rolled his eyes. “He didn’t _kidnap_ anyone. He’s a _foster kid_ , and his foster parents were abusing the younger kids, and he tried to get them all out of there, and they called the police.”

“What-how? You didn’t even know that he’d been _arrested_ until the locker room. When you, let’s repeat this for emphasis, decided to walk out of the building with a known criminal and didn’t tell anyone. _Now_ you’re the expert in what happened?”

Harley shrugged. “We talked on the subway. I annoyed him until he told me what was up.”

“And you just took his word for it?”

“Yup.”

“You _do_ see the problem with that, right?”

“Nope.”

“Jesus.” Tony scrubbed his hands through his hair. “A little help here, Pep?”

Pepper tried to collect her thoughts, but Harley spoke before she could say anything. “Look,” he said, “I’ve met a lot of people through the competition thing. Like, fifty people at least. And honestly there haven’t been any until Peter that I actually felt comfortable with. I’m not super good at the whole friends thing. Like, even before everything… _everything_. I’m not—people don’t _like_ me. I’m not _good at it_. I know that I’m rude, and annoying, and too blunt, and not good at reading unspoken social signals.”

“Considering you pestered me into several panic attacks when we first met, I’d say, yeah, no duh. It’s a major part of your charm, Harls.”

“Tony.” Pepper didn’t put nearly enough energy into her rebuke, but Harley didn’t seem too broken up over it so she didn’t try again.

He scowled at Tony. “Thanks for defending me, oh mighty hero.”

Tony shrugged. “You have flaws. Everyone has flaws. Except me, because I’m—”

“Widely recognized as a horrible person?”

Pepper winced.

“Excuse you.”

“Seriously, Tony. You haven’t done _anything_ illegal in your life? Things you could have been arrested for? That you _would_ have been arrested for if you weren’t Tony Stark.”

Tony opened his mouth to answer—

“And remember that most of your life is public record.”

A pause. “I plead the Fifth. Still doesn’t mean it’s safe for you to hang out with Jareth Junior.”

“That’s not…that doesn’t _matter_. You’re not listening.”

“No, I am. You think he’s a harmless little turtledove and there’s no danger, despite the fact that he _confessed and pled guilty_. He’s a threat—that’s just reality.”

“No, it’s _not_.” Harley’s face was growing flushed again. “And you’re _not listening_. He _had_ to, he didn’t have a _choice_. Not everyone can just buy their way out of trouble! And you know what? Even if he was guilty, so what?! It’s not like he’s gonna kidnap _me_. Or hurt me, or anything. You guys have me on such tight lockdown that he wouldn’t be _able_ to get me even if he wanted to, which he _doesn’t_.”

“Obviously he could, because he _did_!”

Harley rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t a kidnapping. I have been kidnapped before; I know what it’s like!”

“So do I!”

“So what? What does that have to do with anything?! He’s the first person I’ve met in _years_ that I actually thought I could be friends with and you’re just saying that that doesn’t _matter_ because I’m a bad judge of character, and I’m _not_!”

“He is a criminal! He is _dangerous_! I’m not gonna let you get hurt, kid.”

“You already have! _You_ are a hell of a lot more dangerous than some random kid could ever be, and I helped you anyway! You brought terrorists to attack my town! I was held hostage by fucking terrorists and almost died, and so did Mrs. Davis and E.J. and then you just _left_ me to deal with it! And I wouldn’t have been kidnapped ever if it wasn’t for you. And before all that, you broke into my safe space and stole all my shit to fix your stupid suit! So that’s criminal stuff _against me_ , and I never ever blamed you for that or thought you were a bad person, but now you’re saying that it’s suddenly not okay to be friends with people because they might be dangerous? If I did that, Tony, you would be _dead_!”

“Okay.” Pepper cut into the conversation. This had gone on long enough. Tony was silent, mouth open and struggling for words. Pepper knew a catastrophic breakdown was imminent. And Harley…he was shaking. “That’s enough.”

“I’m just saying,” Harley muttered. “You know it’s true, and someone needed to say something.”

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose. If she agreed with him, it would wreck Tony even more and drive a wedge further between her two boys. Resentment and guilt and misplaced senses of responsibility all tied up in a toxic knot of self-flagellating instincts on all sides. Tony undoubtedly already blamed himself for all that and more, and she couldn’t bear to tear him down farther.

But Harley wasn’t necessarily wrong, either. And he was a child. Denying the truth of his words would correctly ring false to both of them and do more harm than good. Damage their trust in her judgment. In their own judgment.

But damn if that judgment might not be flawed. If Harley was taken _again_ , if another of her boys was ripped away from her and hurt…

That wasn’t an option.

If she said nothing, it would be taken as agreement.

There were no good choices.

“A proposal,” she suggested, pretending she hadn’t heard Harley’s mumbled complaints. She spoke slowly, desperately cobbling together some sort of solution as she went. “We do a very thorough check into what exactly Mr. Parker did and why. _If_ —and only if—Harley’s theory of events checks out, then Mr. Parker can be invited to the Tower in some sort of official capacity. Perhaps some kind of internship—that’s easy enough to set up.”

Harley’s eyes lit up. “Yes! See, I knew you’d be reasonable about things, Pepper.”

“I’m not done yet,” she cut him off cold. “If Mr. Parker is in the building, both he and you are chaperoned by acceptable security. You do not meet anywhere outside of the Tower. You keep us informed of your whereabouts at all times. If there is any sign of trouble, we reserve the right to terminate the relationship.”

“That’s not fair!”

Pepper just looked at him.

“Damn right it’s not,” Tony agreed, terse. “Sending you into the lion’s den is a bad fucking deal. No dice.”

“Oh, because you’re the final arbiter of—”

“Boys!” Pepper snapped. “Figure it out between yourselves. _I_ am not dealing with this until after my business trip to Seoul. No contact with Mr. Parker until then.”

“But—”

“No buts! I’m leaving on Tuesday, and I’m not discussing this any further until I get back. It’s two weeks, not a lifetime.”

Harley and Tony both glowered at her.

She ignored them. “When I get back, you will give me a _workable_ proposal for how this will happen. Whatever the plan is, it has to be approved by me, Tony, and Happy. If you can’t all agree, it doesn’t happen.”

Harley blinked back unshed tears, fists clenched at his sides and face screwed up in a mutinous scowl. Tony’s body language wasn’t any better.

Pepper sighed and tried to soften her voice. “Just to make sure you’re safe, Harley. Okay?”

Harley scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“Mr. Stark? Acceptable?”

His jaw clenched, and his heavy stare settled upon Harley’s turned back. “I suppose it’ll have to be, Ms. Potts.”

* * *

“Okay, so,” Ned chattered away in Peter’s ear. “It looks like there was a guy who kind-of matches the description of the fake spidey, out in California in October?”

“Yeah?” Peter tried not to get too hopeful, but this was the first thing that might actually help them find the fake Spider-Man. Ned and MJ had been looking online all afternoon, while Peter was at the probation office and with Skip.

Now he was curled up in costume on a roof, tucked behind a air conditioning unit. He’d been extra careful to avoid cameras and cops since his release from juvie, and was doubly so now that there was an _active manhunt_ for him.

“Yeah, there was this lab, Life Foundation, and an explosion of a space probe…I can’t really tell what was actually happening, but _…”_ Ned trailed off.

_“_ But?” MJ prompted.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. Reading and speaking at the same time. Hard. _But_ , there were a bunch of attacks on the lab and the surrounding research, and there were witness accounts of a 7-foot tall black monster thing with these tendrils and huge teeth biting off people’s heads and killing a whole SWAT team.”

“Uh…no offense, Ned, but that doesn’t sound like something that could be mistaken for Peter.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m not a seven-foot-tall black toothy tentacle monster,” Peter tried to joke, but it sounded forced even to his ears.

“Okay, but hear me out. There’s some pretty shaky footage and some drawings, and…” Ned trailed off, and Peter heard the muffled sound of a recording through his earpiece. Heavy breathing and screeching metal and car alarms.

“Oh, shit.” That was MJ.

“What is it?” Peter asked.

“Um, okay. So he’s human-shaped, and when Ned said _tentacles_ , what he really meant was tendrils, and this guy is using them almost _exactly_ like you use your webs. And…okay, wow. He just threw a car at someone. He’s just webbed someone towards him—a SWAT guy—and _holy shit his he bit off his head_. He just opened up his whole damn face and they weren’t kidding about the teeth. Now he’s climbing up the side of a building, and that’s _exactly_ how you do it, and, yup, okay, he’s vanished.”

“ _Shit_ ,” said Peter.

“Yeah.”

“So…that’s our guy, right? Gotta be.”

“Or someone like him,” Ned suggested.

“Someone _like him_? You mean there are more?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. We’re getting more into conspiracy theory sites now. There’s gotta be official records somewhere, but I can’t even figure out who has them. But, in the course of doing my super cool Guy in the Chair thing, I found some people who think that he’s an alien and the whole space probe explosion thing was a cover-up that unleashed a bunch of these guys on the world. And other sites claim that there’s a vigilante in San Francisco who’s the same guy, and the evidence is pretty convincing. Still all bitey and weirdly gooey and murdery, but the same dude going after, like, child predators and eating their heads. And there were supposed sightings of _that_ guy yesterday. Maybe they’re wrong, but if they’re not…”

“Why would tentacle-guy cross the country back and forth multiple times just to kill randos in New York?” Peter finished the thought.

“If they are randos,” MJ added. “There could be a connection they’re not publicizing. We don’t even know who the victims _are_.”

“Yeah, and I’m trying, but this stuff is on serious lockdown,” said Ned. “They’ve called in the FBI, and Homeland Security, and even put in a request for the _Avengers_. I think I could get in, but they’d probably be able to trace it back to me. And if they find me…”

“They’ll probably find me.” Peter’s mouth flattened to a thin line under the mask. He didn’t like to think of the police interrogating his friend. Or the Avengers hunting him down. “So what do we _do_?” Because he couldn’t just stand here when people are getting hurt.

“I don’t know. This is some real serious stuff. I kinda want an adult.”

“Yeah,” said Peter, softly. “Me too.”

MJ stayed quiet.

Peter sat on the ledge of a roof and kicked his feet until a different, familiar sound grabbed his attention.

“Mugging,” he said into the earpiece, hanging up on the call, and then he swung into action.

The mugging was quickly dealt with, but the woman whose stuff was being stolen screamed and ran off at the sight of him.

“You’re welcome!” Peter called after her. “And I’m not a serial killer! I swear!”

Mugger-guy snorted. “Yeah, that’s real convincing, Spidey.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Peter. “ _You_ don’t have any room to talk.”

Mugger-guy shrugged as much as he could through the webs holding him to the wall. “ _I’ve_ never been accused of being a serial killer.”

“…Fair.” Peter sighed. “I just… _ugh_ , this is so ridiculous! I don’t kill people! I don’t even _hurt_ people unless I literally don’t have another option.”

“Yeah, man. Everybody knows it’s a frame-up job.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “They do?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, not the newspapers or the media or, like, probably normal folks outside the city. But those of us who’ve been here for a while? It’s pretty clear the pigs are just mad you’re doing their job better than them and they needed someone to blame.”

Peter blushed under the mask. “R-really?”

“And hey, speaking of you being a good dude and not hurting people…”

“Yeah?” Peter prodded, suspicious.

“Any chance you could let me down, man?”

Peter narrowed his eyes under his goggles. “You were _just_ mugging someone.”

“I mean, you technically assaulted me. That’s illegal, too. And this webbing me here, that’s probably against some kind of law.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right!”

“Well leaving me hanging up here won’t make a right, either!” He sighed. “C’mon, dude. I wasn’t gonna hurt her. She wouldn’t’ve missed whatever cash she had in her purse, and I ain’t stupid enough to take anything else. They can track that shit. Didn’t manage to do nothing anyway. No harm, no foul?”

“It wears off after two hours,” Peter pointed out, pushing down a wave of guilt and empathy. “You’ll be fine.”

“What if I have to pee?”

“… _Do_ you have to pee?”

“Well not yet! But sometime in the next two hours, I could.”

“Maybe don’t rob people, and you won’t be a little uncomfortable for a bit.”

Peter started to web away, but the guy called after him.

“Wait, Spidey! _Please_. Listen, I got two months left on my parole, and I’m out here trying to support my sister and her kids—the little one, he got diabetes and she can’t afford the insulin—”

“Which you can do plenty of other ways besides _mugging people_ ,” Peter pointed out.

“ _You_ ever tried getting a job as a felon?”

Well, no. But he _had_ tried to get one while on probation, and…that had been hard. Almost impossible. He’d been lucky he’d been able to keep his job at the diner, and the one unloading trucks had taken him _ages_ to find. It was fine, but it wouldn’t be possible to support _himself_ on that little money, let alone a family. And the Stark thing, which wasn’t even a job, simply a scholarship, was probably impossible. Scratch that, it was definitely impossible. And all because of stupid-freaking-probation.

Unless Harley-freaking-Keener was actually who he said he was and would maybe pull some weird nepotism strings.

Which, five hours later, Peter had still not sorted out what was going on there. He _thought_ maybe Harley might try to put in a good word for him? But he hadn’t wanted to ask, and definitely wasn’t going to assume. That would be wrong, to take advantage of a…friendship? like that. And Peter thought they might be becoming friends, after hanging out for hours at SI plus the forty minutes travel time to Peter’s probation officer. Harley, he thought, probably needed a friend. Normal people with all the friends they needed didn’t drop everything in their life to accompany some random kid they just met to the probation office. Especially in the middle of a scholarship interview.

The mugger-guy had evidently realized that he’d struck some kind of chord with Spider-Man. “…and if the cops find me here, it won’t matter that there’s no proof or nothing, they’ll lock me up for good, assuming I even get that far, because they ain’t exactly _gentle_ with extricating folk from your webs. I’ve seen some nasty burns with that new laser shit they have, you know what I’m talking about?”

Peter ran a hand over his mask. “I-”

His spidey-sense went off. _Danger._ He stilled, listening, trying to pinpoint the source of his alarm.

_There._ Maybe three blocks over, now. They weren’t running sirens, but the crackle of a police radio was identifiable enough.

Okay. Sneak out, over the rooftops, and…

Peter sighed. He couldn’t leave mugger-guy here at the mercy of the police. He _couldn’t_.

He fished his solvent out of a pocket and poured it over the webbing.

“Really? That worked?”

“Shhh!”

Mugger-guy dropped his voice into a stage whisper. “Why are we being quiet?”

“Cops,” Peter breathed.

“Oh, shit.”

They were getting closer. Peter heard the crunch of shoes on asphalt; the click of guns being unholstered; a low, electric whine.

“This is a one-time thing,” he hissed at the mugger. “If you don’t want to get caught by the cops, don’t scream. Don’t make a sound.”

“You’re doing a real good job at not sounding like a serial killer,” Mugger-guy whispered back.

Peter glared at him—not that he could see it under the mask and goggles—and hoisted him up on his back. They were up the wall and three buildings over before the cops cleared the mouth of the alley.

Peter dropped his passenger off there. “Don’t mug people,” he said, but it felt completely ineffective and useless. And kind of hypocritical, when he was out here basically going around and tying people up.

He had a lot to think about.

He didn’t get any time to think during that patrol. Or the next. Or the next. By the end of the weekend, Peter was running ragged. Everywhere he went, police. Cops with guns, and those laser cutter-things. And they were shooting to kill.

He tried to talk to them once or twice, explain that he wasn’t the serial killer, but they didn’t stop to listen. He could kind of understand, with a superpowered murderer on the loose and they thought it was him, but then again, the NYPD had shot at him before the whole serial killer thing. They’d choked Eric Garner to death for selling cigarettes, killed Akai Gurley just for being there. Peter had no illusions that if he stayed still long enough, they’d kill him too and call it justice.

Peter had a bullet graze on his leg and an uncountable number of bruises from rough landings by Sunday night. He hadn’t been _shot_ shot yet, but it was only a matter of time. He snuck into Midtown and stole the chemicals he needed to make more of his bulletproof fabric and webs, but it was slow going. He’d have to do it in patches, replacing out the old fabric with the new as he went. At least he’d made the other improvements he’d earmarked for the suit—more pockets and a voice modulator, both cobbled together from scraps.

He tried to push down the guilt he felt at stealing supplies. But it wasn’t like the chemicals were that expensive, just not something Peter wanted to be traceable back to him, and Peter hadn’t even finished the fall term and Midtown. May had paid for that term, and Peter had won his scholarship fair and square. So really he was just getting the most out of his tuition fees. Right?

It was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine. He was doing the right thing. He was.

He had to be.

* * *

“How goes the spider hunt?” Pepper rested her head on Tony’s shoulder and snaked her arms around him. She left for Seoul in half an hour, and wanted to say good-bye before she left.

A bevy of documents and holograms were spread out around Tony in heaps of haphazard disarray, all focused on the wanted web-slinger.

“Hm?” Tony knocked his head back against her chest in acknowledgement of her presence. “Turns out it’s not a spider hunt at all. Itsy Bitsy’s got a copycat.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm. Look at this.” He pulled one of the floating screens into focus: a still image of Spider-Man from the now-infamous bus full of schoolchildren incident, tiny body dwarfed by the bus he was lifting over his head. He was stretched to full height underneath it as he rocked back on his heels to set it down safely on the bridge. He wore an ill-fitting suit made from terrycloth and spandex, bright as bright could be, primary red with blue and black accents and those ridiculous oversized black goggles to top it all off. Obviously a man—if a small one—in a homemade suit.

“Compared to this.” Another screen, a still from a surveillance camera. This one showed a man hanging from the wall of a building, anchored against the sheer surface by the pads of one hand and one foot. This man was big and all rippling muscle, maybe even literally—it almost seemed as if he’d been flayed alive, red sinewy muscle covering every inch of him, but he was strangely smooth, as if his exposed flesh had been dipped in lacqueur. Black and red tendrils seamlessly attached to his…suit? body? and swirled around him in a chaotic mess. His eyes were pure white and took up most of his head, at least all of it that didn’t form of a gaping maw filled with rows of jagged, elongated teeth. Black ooze wrapped around him in disquieting rivulets, and his fingertips morphed into razor-sharp black claws.

“Oh,” said Pepper, moving to sit in her own chair. “Yeah. Those are very obviously not the same people.”

“Yup,” Tony agreed. “There’s a very slight chance that Spider-Man got an…upgrade, or got taken over by some mind-control alien or something, because that’s just what happens now, but…not the same person.”

He paused, frowned at the screens in front of him. “I think Spider-Man might be dead.”

“What?”

“If he’s not, why has no one seen him since this new Spider-Guy appeared on the scene? The last actual confirmed sighting of him was when _I_ saw him. November 11th, remember when that bubble gum Jabba the Hutt appeared? Well, shortly after—Little Miss Muffet was seen escaping a tunnel collapse, heavily injured. No confirmed sightings since, nothing on the cameras, FRI’s got nothing.”

He chewed on his stylus. “I mean, he’s always been good at avoiding cameras. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for them or something. But this is different. He’s not just hard to track anymore. He’s _gone._ There have been calls into the police, a few civilian and police sightings, but they’re still not wearing bodycams and his webs haven’t been found anywhere. Nothing that says it’s not just people panicking about the new Spidey.”

“Didn’t the police say something about him attacking them on the 4th? December 4th, that is.”

“Yeah, and there’s something fishy there. Don’t know what, though. The cameras in the area were all _conveniently_ turned off.”

“Could that have been the copycat?”

“Possible. But I don’t think so. I have a hypothesis.”

“A _hypothesis_?”

“Yeah. This isn’t on the official kill count list, but just after Christmas, there was an escape from Rikers. Ten people in max security got out of their cells; all the footage was wiped. Nine of the missing inmates have been accounted for: two never even made it out of the prison, four were recaptured, two were killed by law enforcement in the aftermath, and one was fished out of the Hudson around New Years. In pieces.”

Pepper bit her lip. “And you think that has something to do with the fake Spider-Man, why?”

“One,” said Tony, pointing a pen at her. “It matches the Spidey-Cat’s MO. Two, there was a guard killed in the escape: Ramone Villar. He was pulled _through_ the bars of our missing prisoner’s cell. That takes serious strength. Superhuman-type strength. And guess who the missing prisoner is?”

“Who?”

“Cletus Kasady.”

Pepper frowned. The name sounded familiar, but it took her a second to place it. “The serial killer?” There’d been a big to-do when they’d caught him a few years ago, but Pepper couldn’t remember the details.

“The one and same. Serving eleven life sentences and confessed to twenty-three murders. His victims are all over the place, just like our new bodies. No real MO or preference for victims except that he’s violent and bloody. Just like our new guy.”

Pepper chewed her lip. “You think Cletus Kasady, the serial killer, somehow got Spider-Man’s powers in prison, busted out, maybe killed Spider-Man somewhere in there, and is now going on a murder spree?”

“Fits the facts.”

“The facts are a bit sparse.”

“It’s a working theory. But I have a pretty good feeling about this. Or, not good, because blood and guts and murder and ick, but…genius. My brain makes connections that the common man could only dream about.”

“Pretty sure FRIDAY did all the actual work.”

Tony shrugged. “I built FRIDAY. She is therefore an extension of my brain, right FRI?”

“That would be one way of looking at it, boss.”

“Oh, hush. None of your lip.”

“What do the police think of this theory?”

“The police are incompetent.”

“Mm. Then how do you go about proving your theory? Or finding Kasady?”

“Fuck if I know, Pep. I’m Iron Man, not _Batman_. No one has ever called _me_ ‘The World’s Greatest Detective.’ This petty, street-level crime bullshit really isn’t my scene. I’m more of a big-picture hero. You know, world-ending stuff.”

Pepper quirked an eyebrow. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Ughh, Pep, it’s just _annoying_. Where did he come from? Where did he get his powers? Where did the original Spider-Man get _his_ powers? I want to knooow.” He whined and rested his head on her shoulder. “And murder is bad or whatever.” He rushed through the words.

“Mm.” She brushed her fingers through his hair. “You need a shower.”

“Yeah, yeah. Personal hygiene. Will do. But seriously, Pep, what is _up_ with this dude’s powers? What do you think: alien or lab rat? It always goes back to one of those. Or _alien_ lab rat?”

She sighed and stood. Even with the private jet, she’d need to get going soon to make her meetings in Seoul. “What about the UN? Any word from them on all this?”

Tony made a face. “I’m to stay in a strictly advisory capacity. No suits. They _might_ consider letting Iron Man out to play but with no authorization to shoot anything within the city limits. Too many civilians, apparently. Which is bullshit. My tracking systems for bullets and missiles are a helluva lot better than anything the NYPD’s got, and _they’re_ allowed to shoot. Plus, I’m pretty sure the delay is just petty revenge for my little impromptu joyride to get Harley the other day.”

“You were the one who wanted accountability.”

“Obviously I’m an idiot.”

“I thought you were a genius?”

“Right. It’s everyone else who are idiots.”

“Mm.” She kissed the top of his head and massaged his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I know this is frustrating.”

“Yeah, whatever. It’s not my job anyway. The ‘caring about people’ thing was more Ste-” He cut himself off and swallowed. “It’s not my job.”

Pepper sank against Tony’s back to hold him tight to her. She snaked her head around to kiss him on the cheek. “When has the great Tony Stark ever let himself be defined by what was supposed to be his job or not?”

Tony just tapped his stylus against the table. “Alien lab _spider_.”

She pulled back. “What?”

“Earlier. I said he could be an alien lab rat. But obviously alien lab spider is much better.”

Pepper huffed. “Truly your genius knows no bounds, Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go get on the plane.”

She rolled her eyes, fond, and kissed him good-bye. “You can care, Tony, you know. That’s not a thing that’s limited to _Captain America_.”

Tony’s face scrunched in distaste. “Low blow, Ms. Potts.”

Pepper just smiled. “Maybe it was, Mr. Stark. I’ll see you when I’m back. Don’t forget your homework.”

“Don’t worry, it’s aready forgotten.”

“No, Tony, I said _don’t_ forget it.”

“I would make some sarcastic comment, but I legitimately have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You,” she said, “need to sort out the Peter Parker problem with Harley and Happy.”

Tony groaned. “Do I have to? Can’t I just ignore it and it’ll go away?”

“You think _Harley_ will drop it?”

Tony grumbled meaningless protests. “Fine.”

“And take a shower.”

“So bossy.”

“I _am_ your boss.”

“Very well, Ms. Potts. I accede to your demands.”

“As you should, Mr. Stark.” She kissed him again. And then one last time for luck. “As you should.”

And then she left. Seoul was waiting, and Pepper couldn’t afford to delay any more.

* * *

On Monday, Peter found himself curled up in the top shelf of a broom-closet during his lunch break. His senses had been worse since prison, the lights too bright, the noises too loud, every sudden movement too much. The only time it seemed to go away entirely was when he was Spider-Man. When the mask and the goggles and the earplugs surrounded and protected him. He had those things now—or at least goggles and earplugs and a spare t-shirt to use as a blindfold—but it wasn’t the same.

_Peter Parker_ didn’t get the same comfort as Spider-Man, and he had to be Peter sometimes. Maybe all the time. How could he be Spider-Man if all he was doing was making things worse? Playing into a cruel and uncaring system?

He could fight against whoever it was that had stolen his name and was hurting people. He knew he could do that. But then what? If the cops were still after him, he didn’t know how long he could go without hurting one of them. And they were just doing their jobs. It was just that their jobs was arresting him and shooting at him. Peter couldn’t go back to prison. He _couldn’t_. And he didn’t really want to get shot either. The cops were supposed to be the good guys! Yeah, sure, he’d kind of known they weren’t, not really, for a while, but Spider-Man couldn’t actively fight against them. Right?

They were the _government_. Law and order. Protect and serve. He couldn’t fight the people who were supposed to _protect_ the little guy. It just, it went against everything he wanted to believe in.

But he couldn’t bring himself to help them any more either. So where did that leave him? What was the _point_ of Spider-Man if he wasn’t helping? Should he just let Iron Man and the remainder of the Avengers take out his doppelgänger and retire Spider-Man for good? It would leave the image of Spider-Man as a murderer forever, but all that would really be hurt was Peter’s pride.

But damn, did that really hurt to even think about.

And so: the broom closet. He ached all over from his encounter with the cops, the constant school bells reminded him too much of the alarms in prison, and even with his earplugs and noise-cancelling headphones both on, he could still hear the entire fucking building. Laughter, shouts, toilets flushing, pencils tapping on desks. Too much. It was all too much, and it _hurt_. He still had his 504 plan, but he didn’t want to keep ducking into the nurse’s office. Who knew how little it would take for them to say he was taking advantage and being a truant and then they’d send him back to prison for skipping class? Because fucking skipping class was a violation of his probation.

So, the nurse’s office was saved for emergencies and the broom closet for lunch breaks and free periods—if there was any way Peter could show up to class, he’d be there. He had to be. Didn’t matter if his head hurt too much for him to pay attention. Didn’t matter if the bells and the chatter of his fellow students made him flinch and try to burrow away.Peter being happy and learning and not in pain weren’t conditions of his probation. Sitting in a certain desk at a certain time and being miserable _was_.

He tried to focus on just one sound. One voice. It was the only way he’d figured out so far to dial his senses back. Bits and pieces of noise floated through his ears, but he couldn’t seem to grasp on to any of them. Until: a familiar voice.

“So,” said the voice, tinny and recorded. “You got detention.”

Peter groaned and threw an arm over his head. “Shut _up_ , Captain America. You’re a war criminal; you don’t get to lecture me.”

The recording of Captain America didn’t care about that. “You screwed up,” he said. “You know what you did was wrong. The question is, how are you gonna make things right?”

Peter hadn’t done anything wrong. He wasn’t even _in_ detention. And he’d heard this exact clip dozens of times. He probably had it memorized by now. But no, Peter’s stupid brain had decided that this lecture from a disgraced…terrorist?… that _other people_ had to listen to in their lunchtime detention was also what Peter should be listening to.

“Maybe you were trying to be cool. But take it from a guy who’s been frozen for sixty-five years—”

Peter wondered if Captain America was that hokey in real life, or if someone had written that speech for him. Probably someone had written it for him; it didn’t sound like the kind of thing that a guy who’d committed treason would say.

“The only way to _really_ be cool, is to follow the rules.”

Peter huffed. Yeah, _definitely_ not something a guy who’d committed treason would say.

“We all know what’s right, and we all know what’s wrong.” _Do we? Did he?_ Did Captain America think he was doing right when he’d done…whatever it was he’d done? Did he _know_ it was right? He was _Captain America_ , he had to have some sort of internal right-wrong meter that was just better than everyone else’s. But Peter had no idea any more.

“Next time those turkeys try to convince you to do something you know is wrong, just think to yourself: What would Captain America do?”

_What_ would _Captain America do?_

He wouldn’t go down without a fight. This was a man who embodied America—everything good about the whole country—and he’d _actively fought the U.S. government_. For some unknown reason. Peter had never met Captain America, but…he was _Captain America._ Even if his reason was unknown, it had to have been a good one. Probably. Maybe.

What would Captain America do?

Or, at least, the idealized Captain America who lived in his head? Not the real, terrorist one. Or maybe also that one?

He’d…keep going. Keep fighting. For truth, justice, and the American way, or whatever. Peter wasn’t really sure what the American way was, but truth and justice? He could do that. He _had_ to do that. Because if he didn’t, if he didn’t keep looking out for the little guy, if he didn’t give it his all, then he wouldn’t be Spider-Man. And even more importantly, he wouldn’t be Peter Parker, the boy Ben and May had raised. He had to keep fighting. He had to clear his name and keep looking out for people, even if he wasn’t turning over criminals to the cops. Because it was becoming clearer and clearer to him that that wasn’t actually a good solution. Webbing people up for the police was just perpetuating the problem.

He just had to figure out how to _not_ do that.

Easy.

Right?

_Right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Eric Garner & Akai Gurley**  
> I think most people probably know the story of Eric Garner, the man who was choked to death by NYPD officer Daniel Pantaleo in 2014. Like George Floyd (and Javier Ambler and Manuel Ellis and Elijah McClain), his last words were "I can't breathe."
> 
> Akai Gurley was shot and killed by NYPD officer Peter Liang, also in 2014. Akai was visiting his girlfriend before Thanksgiving in the Pink Houses, a housing project in Brooklyn. Liang was patrolling the hallway with his gun drawn, was startled by the sound of Akai and his girlfriend going down the stairs, and discharged his weapon. The bullet ricocheted off the wall and killed Akai. [Source](https://www.buzzfeed.com/alexronan/the-life-and-death-of-akai-gurley), [Source](https://www.blackpast.org/african-american-history/gurley-akai-kareem-1986-2014). Officer Liang is basically one of the only police officers in recent history actually convicted of an on-duty shooting [(which led to some protests of unequal treatment because he himself was not white, an issue which I will not get into)](https://www.nytimes.com/2016/02/23/magazine/how-should-asian-americans-feel-about-the-peter-liang-protests.html), but was ultimately sentenced to 5 years probation and 800 hours community service.
> 
> **On the Captain America PSA:**  
>  The transcripts I could find online all ended at “the only way to really be cool is to follow the rules,” so I transcribed the rest of it by ear. Please let me know if you agree with my ear and think that he actually says “those turkeys” because…l o l
> 
> **On Venom**  
>  The stuff that Tony, Ned, and MJ are talking about is sort-of based in part on the Venom movie, which I haven’t actually seen and didn’t do any research on. But this chapter has the entirety of what we’re gonna see of Eddie Brock/Venom, so I think it doesn’t really matter.
> 
> **The Spidey-Imposter:**  
>  @incandescent_glow correctly guessed the identity of the Spider-Imposter last chapter with approximately no clues besides a very vague description, so wow props for that!! <3
> 
> Cletus Kasady, a.k.a. Carnage was basically created as an answer to the question: what would happen if the Venom symbiote bonded to the Joker? He first appeared in The Amazing Spider-Man #344, and there’s a movie coming out next year that will focus on him (Venom: Let There Be Carnage), but the way I’m depicting him here doesn’t fit into whatever canon that movie will end up being or any particular comics continuity. In fact, in most continuities, Carnage only appears *after* Peter has bonded with the Venom symbiote, but rest assured there will be an explanation/backstory provided on how this all works.
> 
> I will probably have more to say about him and why I chose him as a villain in future chapter notes, but in the meantime, here are some pictures (some official, some fanart) if you would like to see what this guy looks like: [official figurine by Marvel and Sideshow](https://www.animetoys.it/animeShop/wp-content/uploads/2019/02/carnage_marvel_gallery_5c4d747a588b6.jpg); [art by alex-malveda on deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/alex-malveda/art/Carnage-770723660) (did y’all know deviantart still exists?? Because I didn’t!!); ; [art by uncannyknack on deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/uncannyknack/art/Carnage-v2-0-530669414); [art by Chimeraic on deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/chimeraic/art/Carnage-608156894); [art by MattDeMino on deviantart](https://www.deviantart.com/mattdemino/art/Carnage-380463833); [figurine by Derive Figurine](https://www.derivefigurine.com/67687-product_default/marvel-carnage-figure-fine-art.jpg).
> 
> PLUS, some bonus official cover art from the comics (artist: Clayton Crain) of Carnage defeating/taking over Spider-Man and Iron Man! This isn’t the version I’m going for, but these pictures are terrifying!!  
> [One](https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/spiderman/images/2/23/Carnage_Vol._1_-5.png/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/900?cb=20121220064243); [Two](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/S/cmx-images-prod/Item/17634/DEC100570._SX360_QL80_TTD_.jpg); & [Three](https://static.wikia.nocookie.net/marveldatabase/images/6/6e/Carnage_Vol_1_4.jpg/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/1000?cb=20110415173615).  
> And, as a double extra bonus: [Cletus Kasady looming over an injured Spider-Man](https://terrigen-cdn-dev.marvel.com/content/prod/1x/absolute_carnage_b.jpg)
> 
> So, yeah. Hopefully it’s pretty obvious how he got mistaken for Spider-Man, despite how differently they are described. He’s a terrifying fucker.


End file.
